


The Adventures of Hamish Watson

by Shay_Fae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Kidlock, M/M, Parentlock, Teenlock, like all of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 50,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sighed. “Hamish, Daddy and I already told you. There are no such things as monsters,” he explained for the fourth time that evening. “Daddy made a pie chart and everything.”</p><p> <br/>A series of oneshots about one very normal child with two very unusual parents</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hamish vs The Monster Under the Bed

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Приключения Хэмиша Уотсона (The Adventures of Hamish Watson)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839413) by [Ahe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahe/pseuds/Ahe)



> There is only fluff here. The moral of these stories is that I babysit too much and also kids say the darndest things. Even if their parents are geniuses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based off of a Junie B. Jones book I was once forced to read aloud six times. In a row. May my suffering have been good for something

“-and they all lived happily ever after,” John finished softly, closing the book. He smoothed down the duvet as he stood, a small Hamish tucked between them. “Good night, darling,” he smiled, leaning down to kiss the six-year-old’s head.

“Papa, don’t go!” Hamish cried out pitifully and John froze. “You can’t leave cause if you do the monster under my bed is gonna eat me!”

John sighed. “Hamish, Daddy and I already told you. There are no such things as monsters,” he explained for the fourth time that evening. “Daddy made a pie chart and everything.”

Hamish was uncomforted. “Yeah but Sammy Pete Spencer’s older brother said that there are too monsters and he’s in fourth year plus he’s super smart. He even knows how to spell incorrigible so I would think he knowses a lot about monsters.”

Sherlock would kill him for encouraging the fantasy by getting on his knees and looking under the bed. But John did it anyway.

“There are no monsters,” he announced, back sore as he stood.

Hamish shook his head. “Sammy Pete Spencer’s older brother said they turn ‘vinsible when you’re not looking at them. He said they wait till you’re sleeping and then they climb up on your bed and eat your eyes cause eyes look like gummy bears.”

John gave up. “Hamish, Daddy and I both told you there are no such things as monsters. You know we would never lie to you.” He searched the room helplessly until he found Hamish’s stuffed rabbit. “Here, you can cuddle your rabbit,” he offered.

Hamish sniffed. “His name is Paulie Peters Smith the Third,” he protested as John handed him the stuffed rabbit. The small boy grabbed the poor thing and clutched it to his chest, burrowing beneath the duvet.

“Well Paulie Peters Smith can protect you,” John apologized.

“Yeah only he can’t on account of how he’s stuffed,” Hamish reminded his silly Papa and John wondered how people considered fatherhood easier than, say, Afghanistan.

“So monsters under the bed you’re fine with, but a vigilante stuffed animal, no that’s going too far,” he muttered as he moved to shut the light. “Goodnight Hamish,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

John padded downstairs to find Sherlock on the couch, lounged out. He looked up as John entered and moved his feet, making space for the man to crash down.

“Monsters again?” Sherlock asked and John let his head hit the back of the couch.

“I don’t know where he gets it from,” he sighed, scrubbing his face with his left hand. “His parents work with dangerous criminals and he’s scared of _monsters_.”

Sherlock was silent and John moved his hand away to find the man grinning wickedly at him. In three seconds John went from thinking about their son to thinking about Sherlock’s mouth, which would have been disturbing if he wasn’t rather desensitized to it by now.

“Long day?” John teased as Sherlock crawled over and moved to straddle him, arms winding around John’s neck.

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock smirked and John moved to kiss that smirk off the genius’s face when they heard a sound on the stairs. Both men turned their head to find Hamish standing there in his fire truck pyjamas, rabbit in hand.

“Sorry to bother you,” Hamish said nervously. They’d been teaching him manners last week and he was taking his lessons a bit too close to heart. “I’m just gonna sit on the couch and maybe watch some BBC News at ten.”

Sherlock and John shared a look. “Your turn,” John said stubbornly and Sherlock sighed as he unwound himself from John.

“That’s it, off to bed,” Sherlock ordered, lifting Hamish up over his shoulder and carrying him back up the stairs.

“We could do a ‘speriment! Or make tea! Can we make tea?” Hamish called out over Sherlock’s shoulder as the taller man carried him up to bed. He was back a minute later, flopping back on top of John with reckless abandon.

“How long do we have before he comes down again?” Sherlock begged, already working on opening John’s shirt.

“I’d give it five-“ John started but was cut off by the sound of Hamish’s voice echoing through the flat.

“Paulie Peters Smith the Third needs a glass of water!” the little boy shouted and John shoved Sherlock off him.

“That’s it, I’m getting the monsters spray,” John conceded, walking to the kitchen.

“You’re only encouraging him,” Sherlock protested from his spot on the floor, sprawled out unceremoniously and unhappily.

John poked his head back into the den. “Wait for me in the bedroom. I’ll be there in ten,” John promised, eyes glinting dangerously.

“Then again, I completely respect your parenting strategies,” Sherlock offered, already shedding his shirt as he ran from the room, leaving John to walk up the stairs alone, ready to spray the underside of Hamish’s bed with Aerosol.

 


	2. Hamish Vs. The Stork

“Nevertheless, I do hope you’ll consider it,” Mycroft sighed, standing up. Sherlock glared at him from the opposite armchair. He stepped carefully around the mess of the floor, which had once been papers and cups and was now toys and train sets.

“Considered it. The answer is still no,” Sherlock offered, not moving and both men turned suddenly at the sound of the front door.

John’s footsteps were ever recognizable, slow and steady on the stairs, accompanied by the rapid thudding of much tinier feet.

“Daddy!” Hamish cried, rushing into the den, and Sherlock stood to lift the boy into his arms, submitting to a horrendously sticky kiss. “I got an A on my project and Mrs. Teacher said I showed expectional process!”

“You mean exceptional progress Hamish,” Sherlock corrected, setting the small boy down. “Try and say it again.”

“Spectional progress,” Hamish struggled, tongue tripping over the words.

Sherlock sighed. “Close enough,” he conceded, ruffling Hamish’s hair as John came in through the open door.

“Hello darling,” the doctor grinned, kissing Sherlock as he hung up his coat. “And hello Mycroft,” he smiled at his brother-in-law. “Would I be wrong in assuming Sherlock didn’t offer you any tea?”

Mycroft smiled awkwardly. “It’s quite all right,” he excused, “I was just leaving.”

“Uncle Mycroft!” Hamish squealed, noticing the man in the corner for the first time. He rushed over to hug the larger Holmes by the knees, crumpling Mycroft’s pants beyond repair. “I didn’t even see you on account of how you were hiding in the corner and Mrs. Teacher says we always have to “take in our surround sounds” but I forget sometimes plus also you blended into the wallpaper like a camel.”

“Hello Hamish,” Mycroft greeted carefully, hands uncertain. As much as John encouraged his brother-in-law to hug his nephew, ever since the boy was in diapers, Mycroft always seemed uncomfortable with Hamish as though scared he might spit up on him and run.

Hamish stepped back, evaluating Mycroft carefully. He paused, as though considering great things, before asking, “Uncle Mycroft, are you gonna have a baby?” pointing a questioning finger at Mycroft’s stomach.

Mycroft couldn’t help frowning as John and Sherlock burst into helpless laughter. John tried to silence himself, stuffing a fist in his mouth, but Sherlock ran in from the kitchen to beam at his tiny son, exceptionally proud.

“Hamish darling, boys can’t have babies,” John explained as Sherlock held his sides, leaning back against the doorframe as he laughed. “Only girls.”

Hamish cocked his head, confused. “Then how did you and Daddy have me?” he asked and Sherlock immediately stopped laughing.

Mycroft smiled again, grin nothing short of diabolical. “I’ll leave you two to handle this,” he said silkily, walking down the stairs. “Goodbye Hamish.”

“Papa?” Hamish asked carefully, coming over. “Why do you look like Gracie did right before she threw up all over the recess yard?”

John swallowed. “Hamish, why don’t you sit down on the couch? Daddy will make us some tea, right Sherlock?” he yelled into the kitchen, where Sherlock had taken refuge.

Hamish complied, running over to sit down on the couch and take his action figures in hand, making a variety of noises. Sherlock poked his head out from the kitchen to whisper with John.

“Should we tell him?” he asked, unsure for one of the few times in his life.

John considered it. “He’s too young for the whole story. I have an idea. Now go make tea and come back here because if you abandon me on this Sherlock Holmes, so help me I will end you.”

Sherlock swallowed nervously and nodded after a beat, ducking back inside as the kettle rang. Sighing, John turned back to the couch, pulling over an armchair so he could look Hamish in the eye. Said boy was kicking his dangling feet back against the bottom of the couch, making various sound effects for his action figures, but he set them down as his Papa sat down.

“So Hamish,” John started carefully, “Remember how you learned that when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they can have a baby?”

Hamish nodded. “Yeah and then Daddy said that if two daddies also love each other very much they can have a baby ands also if two mommies love each other very much only I have issues with that on account of how Lucie in room nine has a mommy who lives in London and a Daddy who lives in France cause they don’t like each other so then how can they have a baby if they don’t love each other very much?”

John took a big breath on behalf of his son, who didn’t seem to need one really. “Yes, that’s true. People who don’t like each other can have babies too. But about two daddies or two mommies having babies-“

“Do they use a Lego set?” Hamish asked, cutting his father off. “Or do they go to a workshop like Gracie who threw up on the recess yard when she went to America she made a bear at a workshop and she got to pick out the bear and then a man put stuffing in it and then also he put a heart in it made of love and cuddles cause that’s what bears need to live not like the heart Daddy had in the fridge which was very bloody so is that where babies come from?”

Sherlock chose that moment to walk back in with three cups of tea balanced precariously between his two hands. John took one and Sherlock handed the smallest mug to Hamish, who cupped it carefully, looking down at it endearingly. Sherlock adjusted the remaining cup in his own hands and perched on the arm of John’s chair.

“Babies don’t come from a workshop Hamish,” Sherlock said clinically. “They come from sex.”

“Sherlock!” John cried, horrified as Hamish gazed openly at them.

“What’s sex?” he asked and John physically covered Sherlock’s mouth to keep from answering. Honestly, after six years of fatherhood, John had hoped the man’s parenting skills would have improved. Granted, he was as loving a father as a Sherlock could be. He rarely said “I love you,” but then again he rarely even said it to John. The emotion was glaringly obvious though in the way he tucked the small boy into bed, the way he sat through hours of inane children’s programs because Hamish adored them, the way he bragged to anyone who would listen about Hamish’s latest successful experiment. But his censoring needed work.

“That’s big boy talk,” John promised, anxious to change the subject. “But darling, what we were trying to explain is that only girls can carry babies in their tummies. So if two daddies want to have a baby, they have to have someone help them.”

Hamish puzzled it out. “So I have a mommy too?” he asked and John paused, unsure.

Sherlock spoke up so suddenly John couldn’t even hold him back. “Someone isn’t just your Mother or Father because they gave birth to you Hamish. That is a title a person has to earn by loving that child. Papa and I have been taking care of you ever since you were born. You only have two fathers.”

Both John and Hamish blinked. “Your Daddy is right,” John said, surprised a bit. “And we both love you very much.”

Hamish paused and both Sherlock and John held their breaths, scared of what the precocious and uncensored boy might ask. After a long moment though, Hamish opened his mouth and asked, “Can I go play with my cars now?”

John let out a low exhale, smiling adoringly at his son. “Yes of course, darling. I’ll call you down when dinner’s ready,” he excused and Hamish jumped up, handing Sherlock an empty mug that neither man had seen the boy drink and rushing from the room.

John looked over at Sherlock. “Crisis avoided?” he asked and Sherlock smiled.

“Yes, indeed,” he offered and kissed John’s forehead, rubbing his hand calmingly.

John stood, stretching. “We really need to work on your censoring,” he muttered, shuffling into the kitchen to make dinner.

“And we need to work on your treating our child like an idiot,” Sherlock countered, following him leisurely.

John looked over at the phone wistfully. “Should we call Annemarie to see how she’s doing?” he murmured, turning on the stove and pulling down a pan to start pasta.

Sherlock clucked his tongue. “She’s doing just as well as she was when you called last month. Honestly John, I believe most people do not keep in such close contact with their surrogates.”

“Will he want to meet her one day?” John worried and Sherlock came up behind him to wrap his arms around his waist, resting his chin on John’s shoulder.

“If he does, we’ll deal with it then,” Sherlock suggested and John hummed in agreement, pausing to kiss the man and nearly missing the fact that the pot he was pouring water to had since been turned into the unwilling home of Hamish’s racecar collection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just my fluffiness dump, hope that's cool with y'all :)


	3. Hamish Vs. Artistic Expression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry updates on this thing are so sporadic. They actually kind of just happen as the kids I babysit do cute/horrible things. Hope they're worth the wait :)

John came home to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of a warzone.

Toys littered the floor, there was tomato sauce slowly dripping down his cheek and the obvious signs of two toddlers running rampant through 221B were everywhere. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the sitting room floor, a circle of train-tracks around him, staring as though he'd had his soul sucked out of him.

“How’s the play-date going?” John asked conversationally from the doorway as he hung up his coat.

“Why did we have a child, John?” Sherlock asked, voice monotone as though it came from somewhere dead inside him. “We could have just as easily gotten a dog. Or a baby tornado.”

John stepped carefully over a pile of miniature coats and trainers as he came over to Sherlock and crouched in front of him. “Have they eaten yet?” John asked as he pulled a spare baby-wipe from his jeans’ pocket and wiped the sauce off Sherlock’s cheek.

“No,” Sherlock told him, consenting to the mothering. “Have the walls of our kitchen eaten? Yes.”

John started to laugh just as a blurred shape came bounding down the stairs. “Papa!” Hamish screamed, barreling into his father’s arms and John bowed his head to allow his face to be smothered in kisses.

“Papa, Casey and I built a fort out of pillows and blankets and cushions from the couch only Daddy said we had to leave the cushions on account of how he was sleeping on top of them but then he got up and so we sailed the fort to mars and we built a castle only Daddy said there’s no oxynagen on the planet so we’d both die but I don’t think so, cause my solar book said that they sent a rabbit to mars so if he can breathe there thans we can, right?” Hamish asked, staring up at his Papa with big blown eyes.

John took a moment to close his own eyes before answering. “He meant there’s no _oxygen_ on mars, not oxynagen and they sent a robot to mars Hamish, not a rabbit. But if you wore a space helmet you’d be okay.”

“Then can I have a space helmet, Papa?” Hamish asked and John took a deep breath.

“No darling, because we don’t have one,” John tried, looking to the boy behind Hamish. He was blonde, in a dirty tee-shirt and shorts, and he smiled politely at John.

“Hi Mr. Hamish’s daddy,” he said, green eyes twinkling.

“No no no, he’s Papa. That’s my Daddy,” Hamish explained, pointing to still-catatonic Sherlock on the floor. “Papa, why does Daddy look like that dead guy you showeded me once who was hit in the head with a fruit bat?”

“Because you’re driving him mad, my little angel,” John said seriously, ruffling his son’s hair. “Are you boys hungry?”

Hamish shook his head, black curls flopping every which way. “Nope. We ate pasketti and meatballs; Daddy fed us,” he explained.

“It’s spaghetti, not pasketti; try it again Hamish,” Sherlock corrected from the floor, voice near flat in his shock.

“Space-ghetti,” Hamish repeated diligently and then turned back to his far more cognizant and reasonable parent. “Can we go back to playing, Papa?”

John nodded and both boys thundered back upstairs, louder than a stampede. Sherlock looked up at him, holding out two hands in the universal gesture of supplication and John reached down to help him up.

“Lestrade called earlier today to ask if I had time for a case,” Sherlock told him as John helped straighten his clothes. “I actually laughed out loud.”

John sighed, tugging down Sherlock’s rumpled shirt. “He’s six, Sherlock. He has more energy now than he will for the rest of his life.” He let go, glancing upstairs worriedly.  “Maybe I should take them to the park.”

“Much too cold-“Sherlock started and stopped at a noise from above them.

“Papa!” Hamish called down and both men turned towards the steps on instinct. “Come see our drawing!”

John and Sherlock looked at each other, and then at the pile of Hamish’s drawing tools, still stacked neatly on the coffee table.

“No,” John said softly and in an instant, they were bounding up the stairs and into Hamish’s room, freezing in the doorway. The two boys had broken into Sherlock’s stage makeup and painted the room in lipstick, doodles littering the pale blue walls.

“I liked that shade,” Sherlock cried quietly as Hamish beamed at them from the other side of the room. “It did wonderful things for my eyes.”

“It did,” John agreed, striding inside.

“Look Papa,” Hamish exclaimed, undeterred by his tragic father by the doorpost. “This is you and Daddy, and here’s the house! And there’s Uncle Greg with a gun! Daddy said I’m not allowed to shoot a gun an that only policemen shoot guns only you have a gun and I know cause I saw it with my very own eyeballs when you were cleaning it once so are you a policeman in secret like Batman?”

John moved to speak but Hamish cut him off. “Also Casey drew his mummy and his daddy and their dog Lila and his older sister Beth only Beth is stinky on account of how she won’t play with him cause she’s in secondary school and she has lots of homework but we have homework too like last night I had to do my vocabalary words with you and I still had time to play so Beth is a stinky liar we think.”

John paused, considering his strategy. Unsurprisingly, years of managing one adult Holmes had quite prepared him for managing a smaller one without flying off the handle. “Hamish baby, what did Daddy and I tell you about taking stuff from our room?” he tried instead.

Hamish blinked wide-eyed up at him. “Um, not to do it without your permission?” he offered, unsure.

John nodded. “That’s right. And did we give you permission to take Daddy’s things?”

Hamish shook his head dutifully. “No but I thoughted it’d be okay cause it was for artistic persession. Mrs. Hudson said that was very ‘portant and are you saying Mrs. Hudson is a stinky liar like Beth?”

John bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. “I would never say that,” he promised, kissing his son’s head. “Just, if you want to paint the walls, next time ask Daddy for your paint set and some paper, okay love?”

“Okay Papa,” Hamish grinned, all teeth and dirty cheeks and John felt his heart melt.

“It’s a beautiful drawing, baby,” he encouraged and Hamish glowed. “You too, Casey,” he told the other boy and Casey grinned up at him.

“Thank you Mr. Hamish’s Papa,” he said and Hamish turned his beaming smile on him.

“You ‘membered!” he cheered and John wordlessly picked up Sherlock’s makeup as the two boys promptly forgot about their masterpiece and remembered the scattered action figures on the floor.

Sherlock took his ruined items at the door, cradling them like an injured child as they walked back down the stairs.

“The walls needed a paintjob,” John said finally and Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

“No they didn’t, we just-“

“Shhhhhh,” John cut him off, closing his eyes as he sunk down on the couch. “Let me have this.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly, setting his things on the table before settling back next to his husband. “At least that was all they took from our room,” he encouraged and John burst into laughter, falling into Sherlock’s shirt.

“We are never having play dates here again,” he vowed,voice muffled against Sherlock's chest and all Sherlock could do was nod as an ominous crash came from upstairs, followed by a tentative, “Papa? ‘Member how you said you’d always love me no matter what?” 


	4. Hamish Vs. Thunder

Mycroft was sitting at his desk when Anthea ran in. That was the first sigh that something was wrong, Anthea never ran anywhere. She met his gaze across his desk and she was flustered. That was the second sign.

“Sir,” she said and that was the third and final sign. “There’s been an incident.”

The ambulance lights were too bright and the sirens were too loud as Mycroft strode into a scene of utter chaos. Lestrade was in the center of it, yelling at seven different people and there were two stretchers being loaded in, two arms frantically grasping for each other. EMTs were rushing everywhere, there were coppers littering the small field, and Mycroft could just make out a man being shoved into a cop car in handcuffs. Pure disorder.

“How the hell could you let him go in without backup!” the inspector was shouting and someone, a constable maybe, was murmuring some version of an apology but Mycroft profoundly did not care.

“Detective Inspector,” he snapped and Lestrade turned to him, face an odd color in the flashing blue lights. “What exactly is going on?”

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, actively nervous, and his eyes flickered over to the pair of ambulances. “Your brother-“

“Has been shot, I’ve just been informed,” Mycroft said briskly and he was not oblivious to the looks he was getting. “His husband too, if I understand correctly.”

Lestrade was all nervous energy and frantic motions. “Yes. We think-“

“Sir,” Anthea was suddenly next to him and he brushed her off.

“Not now, Anthea,” he ordered and she didn’t move.

“Sir, I think this is important,” she said again, holding out her phone and with zero patience he answered it.

“Hello?” he snapped and the voice at the other end froze.

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes?” it asked, a she, and she was in her early thirties. It was a soft voice, a sickeningly sweet voice and he knew exactly who she was seconds before she said it.

“Hi, this is Hamish’s reception teacher. You’re his uncle, yes?” she offered and Mycroft’s genius brain went blank.

“Yes,” he said carefully but the woman was barely listening, forging on.

“Well, it’s only that class ended nearly an hour ago and no one’s picked Hamish up. I’ve tried calling his…fathers but no one’s answered me.”

Lestrade was openly staring now, puzzling out who Mycroft was talking to. He made his next line clear as a precaution. “Yes well, there’s been a bit of an incident. Hamish has told you what his parents do?”

“No, but we all read his father’s blog,” the woman tittered and Mycroft disliked her instantly. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s-“ Mycroft turned to Lestrade and he shook his head. “Stable.”

“That’s good,” she answered, unsure of herself. “Are they coming to pick Hamish up now or-“

“There’s not currently able to. I’ll send someone over to get him,” Mycroft organized and hung up the phone, unconcerned. He turned back to his assistant, handing her back the mobile. “Anthea, please pick Hamish up and bring him to Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure she won’t mind babysitting.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” Anthea pushed, her heals clacking on the concrete as she followed him towards the ambulances.

“Permission denied,” he snipped but she kept following him, speaking anyway as he knew she would.

“The boy’s parents are fighting for their lives; perhaps he would be best-“

Mycroft laughed, cutting her off. “With me? Am I really so adept at comforting people, Anthea?”

She paused. “No,” she said honestly and he appreciated that. “But you’re family. And he’s comfortable with you.”

Mycroft sighed. “Will it ease your silly female mind if I take the boy to my house?” he gave in, and Anthea took the jab in stride.

“I’ll bring him over now,” she agreed, walking away, and Mycroft stayed long enough to watch the ambulances with his baby brother and brother-in-law pull away in a cloud of smoke and blood before following her to the car.

He was in the den, pacing on the phone, when Anthea brought the boy in.

“- so that’s how I knew the puppy was actually a kitty on account of how kittens have long tails but puppies have tails that look like stubs,” Hamish babbled, holding onto her hand, and Anthea was nodding politely. At the sight of his uncle, Hamish let go and raced across the linoleum, grabbing Mycroft by the kneecaps.

“Uncle Mycroft! Mrs. Anthea said Imma sleep by you, is that true?” he asked, looking up with comically-big eyes and Mycroft sighed against his mobile.

“I’ll have to call you back, sir,” he excused, hanging up, before bending down so they were on the same eye-level. “Hamish, your fathers-“ he started awkwardly by the boy cut him off.

“Mrs. Anthea said they’re real busy with a case for Uncle Greg so I gets to stay here with you in your big giant house,” he filled in and Mycroft made a note to give Anthea a raise. Right after he fired her for getting him into this mess.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Now, do you want-“

“Holy bugman, is that your telly?” Hamish gasped, glancing at the 62” plasma on the wall.

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer but Hamish was already throwing himself bodily on the couch, scrambling for the remote. “Can we watch cartoons? Daddy doesn’t like me to watch cartoons on account of how they rot my squishy brain but Papa lets me sometimes when Daddy’s busy but Imma not posed to tell cause then they’ll fight and when Daddy and Papa fight, Papa’s face gets real red and Daddy laughs cause Papa’s short like me so he can’t even yell in Daddy’s face and then I hug Papa so he’ll be cooler like ice cream so can I watch cartoon?”

Mycroft would have to collect his jaw from the floor at some point but for now all he could do was nod and switch on the telly, handing the remote back to the six-year-old who was now staring wide-eyed and relaxed as two cartoon animals chased each other around a kitchen.

It turned out having a six-year-old in house was not a particularly challenging task at all, provided you had skynet. Honestly, he had no idea why his brother complained about it so much. Hamish had been content to sit on his couch mindlessly watching telly for the past three hours, pausing only to eat some pasta the housekeeper sent up.

Mycroft was sitting by the dining room table, a few feet from the pervading sound of cartoon violence, when Anthea called him.

“Has the crisis in Morocco escalated yet?” he asked briskly, not pausing in his writing.

“No sir; it shouldn’t boil over until Wednesday latest,” she clipped and then paused. “How is the child?”

Mycroft glanced through the open doorway. “He’s-“

“You did put him to sleep, yes?” Anthea asked and Mycroft froze. “It’s past ten and he’s only six.”

He scoffed. “Naturally I put him to sleep,” he shrugged off, standing up quickly. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Sir, why do I hear _Arthur_ in the background?” and curse her, he should never have hired someone this smart. What on Earth had he been thinking?

“I enjoy this episode,” he lied quickly and then flushed. “I’ll have to call you back; good night Anthea,” he excused, quickly hanging up. He rushed into the living room and scrambled for the remote, flipping off the television.

“Time for bed,” he commanded from behind the couch and Hamish craned his head around, glancing up at his uncle.

“I’m gonna sleep here?” he asked, eyes worried and Mycroft felt uncomfortably tight around his chest. He made a note to call a doctor tomorrow.

“Well, your parents are still… busy,” he said, remembering the lie. “I have a large guest room, you will be fine.”

“But I don’t have any jammies or a toothbrush or my stuffed rabbit Paulie Peters Smith the Third,” the child complained and for all his brilliance, Mycroft had not one single answer to give.

“I have a toothbrush you may use,” he said finally, trying to remember if he in fact had an extra toothbrush upstairs in his medicine cabinet. “And you may borrow one of my pyjama shirts if you would like one.”

Hamish nodded and then, before he could blink, Mycroft had a small hand looped through his. “Do you have yummy toothpaste? Papa bought me my own special toothpaste that tastes like strawberries only not really cause real strawberries taste sweetier and it kinda tastes more like candy strawberries and I’m allowed to swallow it cause it doesn’t have flowers in it so it won’t give me tummy problems so do you have strawberry toothpaste without flowers?”

Mycroft struggled for a minute to puzzle out what Hamish meant by “flowers.” “Do you mean it has no fluoride?” he asked finally and Hamish nodded proudly as they walked from the living room up the stairs.

They made toothpaste without fluoride? He hadn’t even known that was an option. “I do not have such a toothpaste, so you will simply have to be careful and not swallow any,” he instructed and Hamish tilted his head, considering that bit of information. “Also, it tastes like mint,” Mycroft added in the spirit of full disclosure and Hamish made a face.

Mycroft led him to a guestroom, one of the smaller ones with a single bed and green walls. “I shall bring you a shirt; wait here,” he explained and Hamish was already bounding across the room, jumping wildly on the bed.

He had a feeling that was not proper pre-bed behavior and so he rushed with the shirt, finding a cotton t-shirt hidden amongst his rather pretentiously silk pyjamas. When he brought it in, Hamish took it gleefully, pulling himself out of his own clothes without so much as a by-your-leave.

He got a bit tangled as he tried to pull his shirt over his head and called out from where he was trapped inside a fabric ball. “Uncle Mycroft? Can you help me?” he pleaded and Mycroft came over gently, like on might approach a wild beast, and helped pull off the shirt, laying it on the bed, Hamish’s black hair a crow’s nest. Unsure, he hesitantly helped pull the boy out of his trousers and trainers, slipping the t-shirt over his head. It hung like a dress on the child, nearly sweeping the floor, and Hamish beamed from inside it.

“Now I look like you, Uncle Mycroft!” he cheered and Mycroft couldn’t help the smile that quirked at the edges of his mouth. Wordlessly, he let the boy take his hand again and led him to the marble bathroom. There was indeed a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and Mycroft pulled in a chair from the study down the hall for Hamish to stand on as he brushed his teeth over the sink. He watched him carefully, making sure the boy did not swallow any of the quite fluorinated toothpaste and made sure he rinsed twice.

Tucked into the giant bed, Hamish was nearly lost; nothing more than a mop of curls in a sea of sheets. “I’m down the hall if you should need me,” he told the sleepy boy, who’d already begun to drift off. He moved to leave and paused at the doorway, glancing back. He opened his mouth, as though to say something, and then closed it, shutting the door behind him.

Mycroft was not like his brother, in that he kept a semi-regular sleep pattern and so soon enough, he was climbing into his larger bed. Distantly, he heard the beginning sounds of a thunderstorm and sighed and he lay back. It would be horrendously wet tomorrow and that meant hair puff levels of dismal proportions.

He didn’t remember falling asleep but he must have because he was awoken by the sound of his door creaking open. A small figure stood in the illuminated space, backlit by the hall light. “Uncle Mycroft?” a sleepy voice called and the elder Holmes sat up, groaning internally.

“What is it, Hamish?” he called out and the child walked in a few steps further.

“There’s a thunderstorm,” the boy explained and Mycroft sat in silence, waiting for the normally chatty boy to go on. “When there’s a thunderstorm, Daddy and Papa let me sleep in their bed. Papa says cuddle-piles protect people from thunder and lightning.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said groggily, getting up. “Well, I’ll go sleep in the guestroom then-“

“Silly Uncle Mycroft,” Hamish practically giggled, coming over to the bed. “It’s not a cuddle-pile if you’re in a different bed.”

Mycroft was woefully unprepared for this. He desperately wanted to call Anthea but he had a feeling she would laugh at him and then he’d really have to fire her. And it was such a pain to hire new assistants these days. “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the concept of a cuddle-pile,” he said finally, going with honestly.

It was quiet dark in the room but Mycroft could still make out the look of pure pity the boy shot him. “No one ever cuddled with you, Uncle Mycroft?”

Mycroft shook his head. He had never, till this point, looked back on his childhood and bemoaned the fact he hadn’t been _cuddled_ more, but now it seemed rather crucial. A flash of something, _jealousy_ , went through him at the thought that his brother had _this,_ had small, warm ‘cuddle-piles’ every now and again with his husband and son. Never had his bed seemed so vast and cold.

“So what did you do during thunderstorms?” Hamish asked. Lighting took that very moment to strike and the clap of accompanying thunder sent a jump through the small child.  

He stood there, shivering and shaking in Mycroft’s own t-shirt and so the man strode over and did the thing he’d been absolutely petrified of doing since the boy had been born. He picked Hamish up.

The child was heavier than he had expected, all dense bones and tangled limbs, but he clung to the man and buried his head in Mycroft’s shoulder. Wordlessly, Mycroft carried him to his bed, struggling to lie down. Hamish wound himself around his uncle, small head resting on Mycroft’s chest so his breaths tickled his cheek in small puffs.

Another crack of thunder filled the room and Hamish only burrowed closer, sniffling to himself. There was a calming “shhh” sound pervading the bed and it took Mycroft a minute to realize _he_ was doing it, purely on instinct. “It’s quite all right Hamish,” he said softly, hesitantly. “The lighting is a few miles from us.”

“I know,” Hamish whispered back but still clung to him and that was how Mycroft fell asleep.

 

He awoke to the sound of his mobile ringing. Blearily, he sat and answered it, the morning light shining through the open blinds.

“Hello?” he answered groggily and a voice on the other end was cutting him off immediately.

“Mycroft?” John Watson demanded and Mycroft felt something inside him relax that he hadn’t realized was tensed at the sound of his brother-in-law’s voice.

“John, it’s good to hear from you,” he answered, fully awake now. “How are you?”

On the other end, John laughed. “I’m surprised you don’t already know. I’m alright, just a bit banged up. Sherlock’s okay too, before you ask. He got out of surgery a couple of hours ago and the doctors said he’s stable.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mycroft smiled into the phone. He had been ridiculously worried but surprisingly, child-care seemed to get one’s mind off things.

“Greg said Hamish is by you,” John said and Mycroft knew it was a question, laced with the obvious _why?_

“He is,” Mycroft said, trying not to get defensive. He had done very little in his life to make it seem as though he liked his nephew very much. “Anthe- I should say _I_ thought he might be more comfortable with a relative. We told him you both were very busy with a case rather than worry him.”

John let out a huff of breath. “For the best probably. Though Sherlock will hate you for it; he believes we should always be completely honest with Hamish.”

Mycroft sighed. “John, I’m sure my brother would find reason to hate me no matter what I’d told Hamish.”

John laughed grimly. “True. Is he still sleeping?”

Mycroft glanced next to him. Hamish was passed out with his fact mushed against the pillow, his hair flattened out around his head, one small hand clenched in the sheets. “Yes. We had a bit of a late night. I could wake him if you wanted to talk to him.”

“No, don’t,” John insisted instinctually and then paused. “Well, he’d have to get up for school in a half hour-:

“Hamish,” Mycroft called gently, laying a hand on the child’s back and the boy stirred, opening his eyes. “Your father is one the phone.”

“Which one?” Hamish asked sleepily, blinking himself awake.

Mycroft struggled to remember the boy’s monikers for his parents. “Your…Papa,” he said hesitantly and Hamish reached out for the phone. Mycroft handed it to him and he held it to his ear, lodged between his cheek and the pillow.

“Ullo Papa,” he greeted blearily and Mycroft couldn’t help but grin fondly. He really was turning into a sentimental old fool. “Yeah, I’m by Uncle Mycroft. Mrs. Anthea said you and Daddy were helping the police.” He paused, listening to his father. “No, it was really fun! We watched cartoons and ate pasketti and Uncle Mycroft let me wear his shirt as a jammie.”

There was a beat of silence before Hamish offered, “There was a thunderstorm last night and I hadded to teach Uncle Mycroft how to do a cuddle-pile. He didn’t even know, isn’t that silly?... No, I’m still in his bed; it’s like a whole big puddle in here. You coulded fit a hundred elephants in here and they’d all be comfortidable!”

Hamish listened carefully to his Papa. “He wants to talk to you,” he told Mycroft and the man took his mobile back.

“I’m here, John,” he answered and froze at John’s tone.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” his brother-in-law was saying, every syllable dripping with true warmth. “We cannot thank you enough.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” he brushed off, uncomfortable. People rarely thanked him for things, let alone child-care. “Will you be by to pick him up?”

John hesitated. “I’m not sure if we’ll be discharged until late tonight. Do you think you could-“

“Of course,” Mycroft found himself agreeing immediately and John let out a sigh of relief.

 “Thank you so much,” he said again and then paused before saying, “You’re really good with him, Mycroft. Don’t doubt yourself.”

John hung up and Mycroft stared at his mobile a moment before Hamish nudged him. “Are they coming home now?” he asked.

“Later tonight,” he told the child and Hamish climbed over to sit closer. Unconsciously, Mycroft turned so that the boy sat between his legs, holding one of his fingers in his own small hand. “You have to go to primary though. I’ll send someone by the house to get new clothes for you.”

“Okay,” Hamish grinned, all teeth. It was too adorable for any morning, a small warm creature smiling up at him like he was the sun.

“I’ll pick you up later today and if you’d like-“ he paused, unsure, “we could walk in the park afterwards. Perhaps we could feed the ducks?”

“I love ducks!” Hamish encouraged and Mycroft felt his chest ease. “I love ducks and I love school and I love the whole world! Did you know my room didn’t have a rug until last week when we asked Mrs. Teacher in room 9 if we could have one of her rugs so now we have a rug in the shape of an elephant with all the letters of the alphabet on it.”

“Do you?” Mycroft asked, faintly amused.

“Uh hu,” Hamish nodded emphatically, gesturing with his free hand. “I sit on the K!”

“K is a very nice letter,” Mycroft agreed.

Hamish didn’t answer but cocked his head, as though studying the older man for a minute. After a moment, he must have decided something internally because he opened his mouth and said, “I love you Uncle Mycroft.”

And the iceman’s heart melted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, the fluff. It's suffocating. Anybody need an epipen or something?
> 
> Also Hamish's entire speech about the rug with the letters was lifted almost entirely from one of the darlings I babysitt. In the nature of full disclosure and all :)


	5. Hamish Vs. Romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one for now. Kisses <3

John was in the kitchen by the sink when he heard the front door slam as tiny feet raced up the stairs.

“We’re home, Papa!” Hamish cried from the living room.

John smiled to himself, up to his elbows in soap suds. “Hello baby,” he called back. “Take your shoes off and come say hi. There are penguins on the table if you want some.”

Within seconds there were warm arms around his middle and he bent down to kiss the top of Hamish’s head. The boy looked up for another kiss on the nose and then let go in favor of penguins.

“Where’s your Daddy?” John asked, turning back to the dishes.

“Down by Mrs. Hudson,” Hamish informed him, scrambling up onto a kitchen chair, his short legs swinging beneath him. “He said he haded to talk to her about something ‘mportant.”

Hamish reached across the table for a biscuit, chewing on a corner of it seriously for a minute before announcing, “Papa, I have a little problem.”

“You wanna tell me about it?” John encouraged from the sink.

It didn’t take much to get his son talking. “Marcie McDonald who sits on the S on the reading rug said I’m her boyfriend.”

John’s eyebrows shot up, glad his back was to the boy. “ Well that’s lovely.”

“Yeah only being a boyfriend is really _hard,_ ” Hamish moaned, somewhat muffled by the penguin in his mouth.

John tried not to laugh. It was not proper father behavior to laugh at ones sons romantic problems. “Is it really?” he tried instead and Hamish launched into his usual monologue.

“Yeah it is! Like Marcie said that boyfriends have to give their girlfriends their pudding cups during lunchtime. But the pudding cup is my favorite part of lunch!” he complained, throwing his small hands up in the air in exasperation. “And during recess, I have to play square games with her. I _hate_ square games! All I wanna do is play on the jungle gym but we’re sposed to spend recess _together!”_

John washed the last of the dishes. “So why don’t you tell Marcie that you don’t want to be her boyfriend anymore?”

He turned around just in time to see his son blush crimson and turn near shy. Hamish was never _shy_. “Cause sometimes it’s real nice,” he murmured, not meeting his father’s eyes. “Like at naptime, Marcie puts her sleepy-mat right next to mine and we get to whisper together. And during snacktime, she held my hand. She has tiny hands!” he exclaimed, suddenly excited. “Even smaller than mine on account of how she’s shorter than me and they're soft like kitty fur.”

John smiled, utterly besotted with his small offspring. “Being a boyfriend can be very hard,” he admitted, sitting down in the chair across the table. “It takes a lot of work and a lot of compromise. Do you know what that word means?”

Hamish nodded. “Daddy taught it to me when you made him throw out a ‘speriment to make room for my birthday cake.”

John smirked fondly at the memory. “So you need to decide if it’s worth playing square games and giving up your pudding cup for Marcie to be your girlfriend,” he advised.

Hamish considered the problem a minute, head cocked to the side in concentration. “I think so,” he decided finally and John grinned.

“Good,” he announced, standing. “And if you’d like, I’ll start packing you two pudding cups from now on.”

“You’re the best, Papa,” Hamish cheered, rushing to hug his father before racing upstairs, talking animatedly to himself as he ran.

Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen just as John was brushing the crumbs off the biscuit plate. “Never, in the entirety of our marriage, have you ever given me a pudding cup,” he complained as he lounged against the kitchen counter, watching John clean.

“You never asked for one,” John pointed out, putting the penguin tin away.

“I shouldn’t have to ask; that’s the point of it all,” Sherlock grumbled, put out.

“Fine,” John sighed, turning on his husband. “Would you like a pudding cup?”

“Oh god no, those things are vile,” Sherlock said, making a face and John laughed.

“You are impossible,” he groaned and smiled as Sherlock came up behind him and wound his arms around his waist.

“And yet you love me,” he reminded his doctor.

“And yet I love you,” John smirked and kissed the insufferable man. There was quiet a minute before Sherlock bent his neck down to rest his head on John’s shoulder.

“Our son has a girlfriend,” he whispered, a bit heartbroken and John rubbed his back.

“It’s normal, for this age. I had four when I was in infant school,” he informed his husband.

Sherlock stood back to blink at him. “Four? You utter slag.”

“They called me ‘Three Playrooms Watson’,” he teased and Sherlock growled at him before they kissed and kissed long enough for John to forget about making dinner. 


	6. Hamish Vs. Father Christmas

“Oh John,” Sherlock crowed as he swept into the kitchen where John stood cooking dinner. “The case was fabulous; I wish you could have been there to see it! There was blood everywhere, it was like Christmas-“

“Sorry to have missed it,” John chuckled from the stove. “But speaking of Christmas, we have a problem.”

“If this is another plea for a tree, then forget it,” Sherlock groused, peeling off his coat and moving back to the living room to hang it up. “I understand your desire to give Hamish a ‘traditional’ Christmas but we let him believe in Father Christmas, I dare say I’ve made sacrifice enough-“

“It’s not that,” John cut him off, taking the pot off the flame as Sherlock strode back in. “Hamish’s class wrote their letters to Father Christmas today. His is on the table.”

Sherlock glanced at his husband quizzically. “I fail to see how that is defined as a problem-“

“Just read it,” John advised, reaching into the cabinet for spices that hadn’t been corrupted.

Sherlock picked up the letter. It had been written in crayon, with a few mismatched letters and backwards Es, but his spelling was improving. Sherlock would have to remember to buy the boy a new workbook. It was also four pages long.

“Dear Father Christmas,” Sherlock read aloud, leaning back on the table. “How are you? I hope you have someone to make you a fire all the way up in the North Pole like my Papa does for us. If you don’t, he can come up and show you only you can’t keep him on account of how Daddy doesn’t know how to cook.”

“Quite observant, for a six-year-old,” John remarked, smirking.

“Oh stop preening,” Sherlock glowered and then turned the page. “This Christmas, all I want is a new baby bro-“Sherlock froze, looking up. John met his eye across the table and with a swallow, he went on, “a new baby brother. Or a sister if you’re all out of brothers-“Feeling slightly sick, Sherlock set the letter on the table.

“He goes on for a whole two more pages explaining why it’s a good idea,” John finished for him, coming over. “He even suggested a baby wouldn’t take up as much room in Father Christmas’s sleigh and therefor save him money on fuel.”

“That is fantastic reasoning,” Sherlock said dimly.

“Well?” John asked, crossing his arms. “What do we do?”

Sherlock thought a minute. “I’m sure Annemarie wouldn’t object if we-“

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John cried, cutting him off. “We are not having another child just because Hamish asked for one!”

“Why not?” Sherlock shrugged, studying John’s face. “I was a 7th birthday present for Mycroft.”

John blinked, getting his bearings a minute. “You- what?”

“In comparison, this letter pales,” Sherlock continued. “My mother said Mycroft came to her and my father with a slideshow, complete with graphs. Then again, he was a year older than Hamish-“

“That actually explains so much,” John mused and then seemed to regain focus. “But that is not the point. The point is we are not giving Hamish a baby for Christmas.”

“So tell him Father Christmas doesn’t make babies,” Sherlock offered but John shook his head.

“I’m so scared of ruining the illusion. I want him to keep believing, Sherlock. It makes all the difference,” John explained sitting down.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed his temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him,” he promised.

John looked up. “Really?”

“I’m a master at manipulation, John. I’m sure I can figure out a plausible reason why the imaginary man in the poles cannot bring Hamish a sibling,” he reminded him.

“You’re marvelous,” John stood, kissing Sherlock full on the mouth. “The very model of a good father.”

Sherlock glared at him as his insides sang. Of all the compliments John ever gave him, that one topped. The ringing endorsement that he was doing this right, that he was raising a small human correctly. And now to decimate that trust.

“He’s in his room?” Sherlock checked and John nodded, moving to set the table. Sherlock bounded up the stairs to John’s old room, knocking gently on his son’s door. “Hamish? It’s Daddy,” he announced and the door was thrown open immediately.

“Daddy!” the small boy cried, squeezing the blood out of Sherlock’s legs. “I didn’t even hear you come home on account of how I was super sorbed in my project and also you can be quiet as a Mycroft.”

“You were _absorbed_ in a project?” Sherlock corrected carefully, not even bothering to correct the misused cliché. In truth, mice could probably learn stealth tips from Mycroft. “What project?” he asked, coming inside.

“No!” Hamish shrieked, running to cover something with his blanket. “You can’t see! It’s you and Papa’s Christmas present.”

“Tell me when I can look,” Sherlock said oblidingly, covering his eyes with his palms. There was a moment of rustling and then Hamish announced,

“You can look now.”

There was a suspicious looking bulge under Hamish’s duvet that would’ve taken Sherlock seconds to deduce but he purposefully didn’t look. In this, he would allow some element of surprise. Although, if the glue on his son’s hands was any indication, he would be getting something rather sticky and rather useless, yet inexplicably precious all the same this year.

“Sit down a minute, Hamish. I would like to talk to you,” Sherlock instructed and the boy climbed onto his bed, sitting on the edge with his feet dangling beneath him. Sherlock pulled out Hamish’s desk chair and sat down gingerly, unsure of where to begin.

“Papa and I read your letter to Father Christmas,” he started and Hamish spoke up immediately.

“Did you post it? I hadded to ask Mrs. Teacher how to spell ‘fuel efficient’ and also how to spell ‘personable,’” he explained, his legs swinging enthusiastically.

“Yes, about that,” Sherlock leaned forward. This was the moment. “You see Hamish, Father Christmas cannot bring you a baby brother because he is not real. Papa and I buy your presents, and we are not ready for a second child right now.”

He hadn’t actually expected anything specific, just the generic blank stares of shock and perhaps a few tears. But Hamish only grinned at him. “Silly Daddy, I know Father Christmas isn’t real,” he disclosed.

Sherlock stared at him. “You…do?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, since I was only four,” Hamish expounded. “Uncle Mycroft accidentally told me once and then said if I didn’t tell you he would buy me an action figure.”

Sherlock was going to kill his brother. He wasn’t exactly sure why; after all Mycroft had only done what he’d wanted to do at Hamish’s first Christmas. But he was positive the git deserved to be murdered anyway.

“But Daddy!” Hamish cried, suddenly frantic and Sherlock turned to him. “You can’t tell Papa. He still thinks Father Christmas is real. He’d probably cry real hard if you told him. And Papa’s face gets real red and scrunchy when he cries and I don’t like it at all. ”

Sherlock couldn’t help it; he laughed. Hamish looked at him, confused, until Sherlock controlled himself and reached forward to ruffle his son’s hair fondly. “I won’t tell him,” he promised, stroking Hamish’s cheek with his thumb. “You are being very kind.”

“Mrs. Teacher said December is the seasoning of kindness,” Hamish parroted, smiling up at his father.

“Season of kindness,” Sherlock corrected instinctively. “But you understand that babies are not gifts people give. They take a lot of work and planning, especially for Papa and I, and we’re not ready at this moment.”

Hamish was silent a minute, most likely explaining it to himself, and then nodded. “I understand. May I have a train set instead?”

“I will pass it on to Papa,” Sherlock assured and then both turned to the sound of John calling,

“Sherlock, when you and Hamish are done, supper is ready!”

“Shall we go downstairs?” Sherlock asked, turning back to Hamish.

“I’ll come in a minute, I wanna finish my project,” Hamish explained and Sherlock stood, stopping to brush a kiss across the boy’s forehead before retreating downstairs. John was ladling food out and looked up as Sherlock came in.

“He’s just finishing a project, he’ll be right down,” Sherlock answered the unasked question.

“Does he understand why he can’t have a baby for Christmas?” John asked, busying himself again.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer and then closed it, considering his husband a moment. Finally, he said, “Yes. He would like a train set instead.”

“I’ll help him write a new letter,” John nodded and Sherlock couldn’t help coming over and kissing him, wrapping his arms around John’s waist.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, my darlings :)  
> I'm actually in New York for Christmas and it is beautiful here. Would recommend highly ;) I almost took the boys across the pond with me but it just seemed like a rather lot of work.


	7. Hamish Vs. The Not Nice Very Bad Evil Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me?

“Well Mr. Starship commander, do you think we can fix this?” Hamish said in his deepest voice, moving his spaceman action figure up and down.

“I’m not sure, sir,” he replied, grasping his stuffed monkey in his other hand and trying a higher voice. “We’ll need to try some speriments on brains and mold and squishy things.”

 The six-year-old chuckled to himself. “All right,” he had the spaceman agree, “as long as you don’t keep any of them in the fridge near our space-food.”

A sudden scream startled him out of his game and he looked up. There were heavy stomps on the stairs and he dropped his toys. “Daddy?” he called out hesitantly. He knew his fathers were busy with something for Uncle Greg, and Nanny Hudson was watching him. But she was right in the living room, she would have said something if his fathers had come home.

Clutching his monkey close, he stood and padded carefully to the door. “Papa?” he called down the stairs and the voice that answered was unfamiliar.

“I found the kid,” someone said and then everything went fuzzy.

When Hamish blinked open his eyes, he was somewhere very dark and moving. He moaned softly, his head hurt terribly, and then the unfamiliar voice was back.

“Hey there kiddo, good morning,” a man said. Hamish had his eyes fully open now; they were in the back of a van and a man was perched on a box. He wasn’t a very scary-looking man, with a black knit hat and a clean-shaven face. He smiled gently at Hamish and the boy shivered back.

Hamish opened his mouth to scream and then suddenly the man was leaning forward and stuffing something in his mouth. It tasted like cloth and when Hamish moved to pull it out, he realized his hands were tied.

“Sorry about that kiddo, but we can’t have you screaming on us,” the man shrugged and Hamish screamed useless around his muffle. He felt himself start to cry and the man clucked his tongue. “Oh, now don’t cry little one. You’ll be back with your dads quick as a wink,” the man hushed and Hamish started to panic.

 _Think Hamish_ he ordered himself. All at once, his dad’s voice was in his head- silky and commanding. _Use your surroundings,_ voice Daddy reminded him. _Think through all the things you can do. Then do what you can._

“We’re just taking you to a nice little place where you can relax,” the man went on, oblivious to Hamish’s inner planning. “We’re not gonna hurt you. My name’s George.”

“Oi, don’t tell him your name- idiot!” someone from the driver’s seat called back and the car took a sharp turn. George’s box slid a few centimeters and a cloud of dust was kicked up.

“Shit Harry, he’s just a kid,” George coughed back, waving the dust from his face. And then suddenly Hamish had an idea.

_‘Why’s that boy coughing so much?’ Hamish had asked his Papa as they’d walked together in the park._

_‘He has asthma,’ his Papa had explained, and Hamish knew his Papa was right cause he was a very good doctor and doctors know everything about people. ‘Look, his mom’s giving him an inhaler.’_

_‘What would happen if he didn’t have an ina-ina-inhailstorm?’ Hamish had asked and his Papa had laughed._

_‘Inhaler, Hamish- try it with me,’ he’d prompted and Hamish had tried the word again. ‘Well, he could die,’ his Papa had said honestly. ‘So he needs to always have it.’_

Now, back in the van, Harry was yelling something else at George and Hamish started coughing. It was really hard to cough around the gag but it caught George’s attention. “Shit, all you alright kid?” George asked, taking out Hamish’s gag.

True to form, Hamish kept coughing. “Do you need water or something?” George tried and Hamish did his best to remember how the boy in the park had coughed, large and loud. And then he’d stopped coughing and had started gasping for air. So Hamish mimicked.

“Oh fucking hell, don’t tell me you have asthma,” George panicked and Hamish nodded, never stopping in his throat campaign. “Fucking- the boss never said anything about asthma! Harry, do we have an inhaler?”

The van swerved sharply. “Boss never said the kid had asthma!” Harry yelled back and George was actively going to pieces.

“Well turns out he does; what the hell do we do?” George demanded. Hamish’s chest was starting to hurt and his throat felt dry and scratchy. But it was like make-believe, if you stopped acting like the goose fairy, everything was ruined. His Daddy always forgot that rule.

“I’m calling 999,” George finally gave in and Harry nearly stopped short.

“We’re kidnappers, you idiot! We can’t call the coppers!” he bellowed but George was already pulling out his mobile.

“If we kill the Watson kid, we’re actually dead. We don’t have a choice,” George reminded him and then he was already dialing. “Hello yes, there’s this kid on the street having an asthma attack, he doesn’t have an inhaler. We’re by Harper’s St and Theobald- Harry pull over,” he demanded, closing the phone and then the van was pulling over and George was untying his hands and opening the back, carrying him out to the empty street and arranging him properly- leaning back in his arms.

Harry ran out of the front seat, a black-haired man with strong arms- and not once did Hamish let up the act. It was late at night, the whole street was dark and vacant and Harry cursed. “We’re right near a hospital, that means they’ll be here in-“

The sound of sirens cut him off and then an ambulance pulled up alongside, a man in a paramedic’s outfit jumping out and running over. The second he was within range, Hamish stopped gasping and bolted, running until he could hide behind the man’s legs.

“My name is Hamish Watson and I’m lost, these men are not nice very bad evil people and I want my daddy,” he rambled and then he burst right into tears.

All the adults on the scene stood frozen until Harry unfroze enough to reach for his belt where presumably a gun sat holstered.

“Don’t you dare,” the paramedic ordered as a second set of sirens grew closer and a panda car pulled up behind the ambulance.

“Put your hands in the air,” the two police running out of the car yelled and Harry and George raised their arms slowly, glaring at Hamish who was still sobbing and clutching onto the paramedic’s legs for dear life.

“It’s alright,” the paramedic eased, kneeling down next to Hamish as more cops swarmed the scene and the two kidnappers were frisked and handcuffed. “You’re safe now. You were very brave.”

“I want my Daddy,” Hamish sniffled. “And my Papa.”

To his credit, the paramedic didn’t so much as blink. “We’ll get them for you. What’s your name again?”

“Hamish Watson,” he repeated. “My Daddy and Papa are famous de-de-detectives,” he stuttered, tears slurring his words.

The paramedic lifted him up, settling the skinny boy on his hip as two cops pushed the would-be kidnappers into the car. “Let’s get you set up nice and snug in the ambulance- how’s that sound? We’ll wait for your daddies there,” he suggested, carrying Hamish to the waiting ambulance.

“Only one of them is Daddy,” Hamish protested weakly and that was all.

He was sitting on the edge of the ambulance wrapped in an orange blanket when his Papa ran into the scene. The paramedic has given him something to help with the pounding in his head and a nice lady had wrapped the blanket around him when she’d seen him shivering. He had red marks on his wrists but he was otherwise unharmed.

“Hamish!” his Papa called and ran over to him, reaching into the ambulance to lift him off the metal floor and hug him tight to his chest. Hamish wound his legs around his Papa’s middle and dropped his head into his shoulder, relieved.

“Papa, I was so scared,” Hamish bawled, breaking down all over again.

“Shhh,” his Papa whispered, rubbing his back. “You’re nice and safe now. Daddy and I were so worried about you.”

Hamish sniffled. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and his Papa only hugged him closer.

“Don’t be, baby. This isn’t your fault,” his Papa promised. “Nanny Hudson’s okay too- just a little bump on her head, don’t you worry.”

He hadn’t even thought about Nanny Hudson. He hoped George and Harry hadn’t been mean to her too. “Where’s Daddy?” he snuffed.

He felt his papa tense under him. “Daddy’s coming, love. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Now let Papa see your hands.”

He was having his wrists gently wrapped by his Papa “just in case,” and falling asleep against the side of the ambulance, when he saw his Daddy run up to their ambulance. “Sherlock!” his Papa called and then Daddy strode over, his long black coat billowing behind him. Hamish loved that coat.

“Is he alright?” his Daddy called over and Hamish blinked sleepily. 

“He’s okay, just a little shaken up,” his Papa whispered and Hamish reached his arms out from inside his orange cocoon.

“Daddy,” he grasped, hands clenching into small fists and his Daddy lifted him slowly, wrapping his long arms around Hamish’s body.

“Did you catch their boss?” his Papa asked quietly and he could feel his Daddy’s head nodding next to his own but he wasn’t really paying attention. All Hamish wanted to do was go to sleep.

“The police told me you were very clever and pretended to have an asthma attack,” his Daddy murmured into his ear, unconsciously rocking him side to side. “Where did you think of that from?”

“I had your voice in my head,” Hamish confessed blearily. “You told me to use my surround…sounds,” he struggled to remember as he was rocked, drifting deeper into dreamland.

“My brilliant son,” his Daddy encouraged softly, rubbing tiny circles into Hamish’s back with his fingers. “My little genius son. I’m so proud of you.”

“Let’s get him home,” his Papa pushed, rounding them up, and his Daddy did not set him down, but instead only hoisted his up a little higher and followed after his husband.

“Daddy, can we have a cuddle-pile tonight?” Hamish requested fuzzily, nestling in closer and breathing in the scent of his Daddy, his fists lost in the folds of his massive coat.

“Obviously,” his Daddy promised and Hamish smiled to himself in his half-asleep state. He could feel them getting into a cab as he drifted off, his Papa’s hand in his hair and then someone whispered,

“I love you.”

He was pretty sure it was his Papa, his Daddy never said ‘I love you,’ but Papa always said that was because Daddy liked to show his love rather than say it. But it didn’t really matter. Here was where he felt safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun playing around with this one. It's a bit in Hamish's voice, if you can't tell, but still narrated. Have fun with it :)


	8. Hamish Vs. Cough Syrup

Sherlock hadn’t magically started sleeping more once he’d starting sharing a bed with John. But even he had to sleep sometimes, and now he was passed out in his own bed, his arm flung haphazardly across John’s back as they both slept on their fronts.

A soft noise at his door woke him slowly but he still wasn’t very cognizant as a warm body crawled across his bed and struggled to curl into him. Still half-asleep, he let go of John and moved to curve his body to accommodate the new visitor.

Hamish said nothing, only dug his fingers into Sherlock’s thin tee-shirt and whimpered. It was the whimper that woke Sherlock up and he moved to stroke Hamish’s head before he realized what was wrong.

“John,” he called, his voice sounding loud and sleep-rough. “John, wake up.”

Hamish whimpered again in his arms and John was waking up, turning to face Sherlock blearily. “Sherlock, what on earth-“

“He’s burning up,” Sherlock offered in lieu of an explanation but that seemed to get John’s attention. Wordlessly, the doctor leaned over to switch on a lamp and the room was bathed in a soft, yellow glow. Hamish had stripped off his pyjama shirt and was flushed, breath coming in stuttering behind his thin ribs.

“Go get the thermometer,” John ordered, doctor voice taking over. He helped his husband ease their son from his own arms to John’s and then Sherlock was disappearing down the hall and to the bathroom.

“Hey there little guy,” John whispered gently, pushing back Hamish’s sweat-soaked curls. “You’re not feeling so good, are you?”

“My head hurts, Papa,” Hamish murmured, voice fever-pitched. “It’s like there’s a whole zoo of apes and gorillas and monkeys and the monkeys have a drum set and the gorillas have two cymbals and they keep smashing them bang bang against my squishy brain.”

“At least illness hasn’t made him any less talkative,” Sherlock noted, coming back into the bedroom. He handed John the thermometer and John rubbed Hamish’s back.

“He’s delirious,” John explained and then spoke to Hamish softly, like he would to a baby. “Hamish love, Papa needs you to open your mouth and then put this little stick under your tongue. Can you hold it there for me?”

Hamish nodded and opened his mouth, his eyes fever-bright. Wordlessly, John eased the thermometer under his tongue and waited, petting Hamish’s curls. “Go make some tea, would you love?” John directed and Sherlock flitted out again. Sooner or later the genius would figure out John was just trying to distract him, but he’d take later. Sherlock was nothing short of a pain when it came to illness.

He was just taking the thermometer out as Sherlock strode back in, a child’s mug full of tea in his hands. “38 and a half,” John noted, lifting it under the lamp. “He’s running a fever is all.”

“That’s it, hospital,” Sherlock ordered and John sighed. Every damn time.

“Sherlock, we’re not taking him to the hospital. He just has a fever,” he tried calmly. “Don’t you Hamish? You’re a little warm, yeah?”

Hamish nodded helpfully. “It’s like I’m sitting under a great big sun only I forgot to put on sunblock and Mrs. Teacher said if you don’t then you get wrinkles so I’m wrinkly and hot like a shaved kitty cat that Nanny Hudson showed me once on the spider web,” he supplied and Sherlock moved to lift him.

“How does that not warrant a hospital?” he demanded.

“If he wasn’t talking, I might see your point,” John shook his head and gathered the tiny boy up in his arms. “We just need to get him settled and get him some medicine. Go get the children’s syrup from the medicine cupboard.”

“We have a medicine cupboard?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head the way he did sometimes when he was befuddled. It would have been adorable save the warm child in his arms.

“Yes and you know that,” John groaned. “You need to stop deleting objects in the flat. We need those things; that’s why they’re here.”

“I fail to see how your collection of American stamps is doing either of us any good,” Sherlock pointed out and John was too tired for this.

“Go get your sick son syrup from the cupboard above the bathroom sink before I hit you,” John repeated, arranging Hamish so his head rested on John’s shoulder and his arms tightened around his father’s neck instinctively.

“So when he’s sick he’s suddenly _my_ son,” Sherlock grumbled as he stalked off and John walked carefully upstairs, laying Hamish back down in his own bed,

“Don’t leave me, Papa,” Hamish begged pitifully as John set him down. “If you do the sun’s gonna burn me right up to a little chip and I don’t even like fish and chips have to spend their whole lives next to fish until they’re eaten an I don’t wanna be eaten cause then I’ll be gone like clouds when they float away and break like marbles.”

John didn’t quite grasp the metaphor but he held Hamish’s hand just as tight. “I’m not going anywhere baby. I’m going to stay here the whole night,” he promised and Hamish calmed down.

Sherlock chose that moment to come back with the syrup bottle in one hand and a plastic measuring cup in the other.  With a nod, John took them and filled the cup carefully, holding it against Hamish’s lips. “Here love, open up,” he prompted.

“What flavor is it?” Hamish demanded.

John diligently checked the bottle. “Strawberry,” he announced and Hamish opened up, drinking down the pink stuff. He coughed at the tail end of it and John handed him his tea, helping him drink some and settle back down.

“You close your eyes and sleep, Daddy and I will be right here,” he eased, brushing back his son’s hair and Hamish blinked sleepily at him.

“It hurts deep down to my bones,” he shivered and John clucked sympathetically.

“The medicine is going to help you,” he promised. “Why don’t you turn over and I’ll rub your back?”

Hamish did and John set to making small, slow strokes, calming the tiny child until his breath began to even and his eyelids fluttered in sleep.

“I still think we should take him to a hospital,” Sherlock put forward into the extending silence and John didn’t even turn to glare at him, focusing on rubbing the tension out of the six-year-old.

“Yeah well your opinion counts for nothing when your husband’s a doctor so shaddap,” he advised. “Besides, you’re too overprotective of him when he’s ill and you know it. You nearly wanted him to live in the hospital when he was an infant.”

“The biological need to run a fever while growing in teeth is still beyond me,” Sherlock grumbled instead of acquiescing but he leaned back against the wall in silence. John rubbed a few more silent minutes before lifting one hand to Hamish’s forehead and breathing out.

“Fever’s starting to go down,” he smiled softly. “It won’t level out for another half hour at least but he’ll be okay. We’re gonna have a tough day tomorrow; this is probably a 24 hour thing.”

“You go to sleep,” Sherlock said, moving to take the chair next to Hamish from John. “I’ll stay up with him in case he needs anything.”

“Sherlock-“

“In any case, you need to stay healthy. You need to be able to treat him tomorrow; it won’t due for you to come down with what he has,” Sherlock cut him off. “I wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight anyway.”

“You were just sleeping,” John pointed out, one eyebrow raised and Sherlock backpedaled.

“Which means I’m good for the next three days. Now let me sit with him,” he demanded and John stood silently, yielding the chair. Sherlock sat and immediately took up Hamish’s relinquished hand, rubbing tiny circles into it with his thumb.

John leaned over suddenly and kissed Sherlock’s head. “He’s so lucky to have a father like you,” he whispered gently and then padded out of the room before Sherlock could process.

Hamish woke only once, at three am, with frantic eyes.

“I had a dream and you were all wolves and you got eaten by big black bears and I was so scared cause I love you and I don’t want you to leave,” he sobbed and Sherlock cursed John internally for not agreeing to take the boy to the A & E.

“When you have a fever, you sometimes have disturbing dreams,” Sherlock explained and Hamish nodded even though Sherlock was 90% sure the boy had no idea what ‘disturbing’ meant. “It means we should give you more medicine.”

Hamish dutifully opened his mouth as Sherlock set to measuring out the syrup. “Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered conspiratorially to his father and Sherlock nodded. “I was scared before but I’m not scared now.”

“And why is that?” Sherlock asked conversationally, holding the tiny cup up for Hamish to drink.

Hamish smiled at him, tiny and sweat-soaked. “Cause you’re here. And you’re the strongest man in the whole wide world. Even Papa says so.”

Sherlock said nothing as Hamish drank his medicine and then set to easing him back to sleep, rubbing his back as he’d seen John do. As Hamish nodded off around four, he let himself relax. He knew, intellectually, that a hospital would serve only to make Hamish sicker. Surrounded by all those foreign germs, he was likely to come down with something stronger. Not to mention any antibiotics the hospital would give him would only lower his immunity to future diseases.

And yet, some illogical, impulsive, _sentimental_ part of him wanted to bundle the small boy up in cellotape and hide him from the world- keep him safe and warm and watched. He’d been warned this would happen when they’d first had Hamish but even now, six years later, he still stared in shock at how hard the child had shattered everything he’d loved about his old life and how he’d gladly let it happen.

By daybreak Hamish’s fever had officially broken but Sherlock wasn’t awake to see it. John came in at nine to find father and son curling into each other, Sherlock curving over in his chair to slot himself between Hamish’s neck and shoulders, hands wrapped in each other. 


	9. Hamish Vs. Artistic Interpretation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, i know, we already did an art chapter. But I simply could not resist *mehehehehehe*

“Thank you so much for coming in,” the redheaded woman proclaiming herself as “Mrs. Emily” smiled at them from behind her desk.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the child-sized chair he’d been offered alongside his husband. “It’s not like we had much choice in the matter,” he grumbled and John took over.

“Not a problem,” he eased, completely natural in the plastic chair as he smiled back at Hamish’s reception teacher. “On the phone you said something about his art?”

“Well, yes,” Mrs. Emily started awkwardly, fiddling with the papers on her desk. _She_ had a chair meant for adults or those above three feet tall, why couldn’t they? “We understand that every child has a unique creative vision and that no child-“

“Please, skip the pleasantries and get to the problem,” Sherlock grouched and Mrs. Emily looked even more uncomfortable.

“Right, yes,” she nodded. “Well, Hamish has been turning in some…questionable art projects. I’m sure once I show them to you, you’ll explain them and all this will just prove to be a big misunderstanding,” she smiled awkwardly at that point, “but we just want to make sure everything’s alright.”

“Of course,” John agreed, trying to make her feel less scrutinized. “Why don’t you show us?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Emily brushed off and then lifted the first paper. “This one wasn’t so much disturbing as simply confusing. The children were asked to draw pictures of their families and Hamish drew this.”

Both men leaned in closer to take a look at the offered drawing. “These figures are clearly you two,” she motioned, pointing to stick figures standing in a field of pink and red flowers, “and there’s Hamish in the middle-“

“Little brat drew me shorter than him,” John gasped, and Sherlock snickered besides him.

“-but there were a few unclear characters,” Mrs. Emily went on as through she hadn’t been interrupted. “This man with a gun, for example. Hamish said this was his uncle?”

“Honorary uncle,” Sherlock explained as John grumbled something about ‘stupid kids’ and ‘not that short.’ “He’s a police officer; Hamish must have seen him with a weapon once.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Emily accepted. “But then he drew this woman in a doghouse here in the corner and explained that she was his aunt?”

John blushed crimson at this. “That’s probably my sister. She’s got a bit of an alcohol problem and all of her interactions with Hamish have been carefully monitored. He must have just heard us talking about her one time. We’ll talk to him about it.”

“Well that’s normal,” she acknowledged. “But then he drew this man up here in the sky and when we asked him who it was he said it was his ‘Uncle Mycroft who knows everything about everyone.’”

It was John’s turn to snicker and Sherlock crossed his arms defensively. “That would be my brother this time,” he ground out. “He has a _minor_ position in government, Hamish must has exaggerated it in his head.”

“Well that’s this one explained,” Mrs. Emily smiled encouragingly as Sherlock hissed something to John that sounded like “Don’t you _dare_ tell Mycroft about this.”

She put down the drawing and then held up another one of a boy on a blue blob surrounded by bars. “This one the children were asked to draw the most exciting place they’d even been. Hamish explained that this was the back of a police car?”

John wanted to drop his head into his hands. “Yes, that probably has something to do with his Uncle Greg, the cop from before. Maybe he took Hamish for a ride in one; I can’t remember. But Hamish has never been arrested, nor have I or my husband.”

“Too often,” Sherlock clarified and John kicked him.

Mrs. Emily looked utterly lost. “We were sure that one was innocent,” she shifted. “But this one,” she prefaced, holding up the last paper, “we really just don’t know what to do with. The assignment was to draw their favorite activity and Hamish drew this which he titled, ‘Doing ‘Speriments.’”

The drawing was of a shaky stick man standing by what looked like a table with a box in the background that could have been a fridge. The damning part of the picture however was the very clear severed head resting on the table, complete with Xs for eyes and a stuck-out tongue.

“Oh my god,” John murmured, covering his mouth with one hand.

“Not a bad likeness,” Sherlock grinned, leaning in closer. “I assume that’s me; he did my curls wonderfully.”

“What my husband is trying to say,” John cut off as Mrs. Emily turned practically sheet-white, “is that he’s a scientist. He works with all kinds of objects for our cases and sometimes that requires re-creating a crime. But we use a dummy or a  model or-“ he rambled frantically.

“We’ve never exposed Hamish to a severed head,” he promised finally, not sure what else to say.

“Well-” Sherlock started, tilting his head and John glared at him.

Mrs. Emily looked like she was preparing to faint. “There are no severed heads in our flat,” John announced, a bit louder than he’d meant to.

Sherlock considered it a minute. “I mean, technically the skull is a -“ he tried and John looked ready to punch him. “Nope,” he quickly said, backpedalling furiously. “John is correct; there are no severed heads in our home.”

Mrs. Emily blinked at them. “Well, if that’s all,” John said, standing up and Sherlock followed suit, wincing as his back recovered from the tiny chair.

Hamish’s teacher seemed to snap out of the trance she’d fallen into. “Yes, thank you so much for coming,” she parroted and John reached out to shake her hand before nudging Sherlock to do the same.

“We’ll talk with Hamish about this,” John assured her and she nodded absentmindedly, still swaying from the severed head business.

“Do have a good night,” Sherlock called from the doorway. “And tell your husband about the lost money; it’s better he hear it from you than from your mother-in-law.” And with that, the two of them rushed out of the reception classroom.

“I am going to kill our son,” John nodded in the cab home, remarkably calm. “This is your fault, you know. That kid has no filter.”

“Look at it this way,” Sherlock offered, trying not to laugh, “at least he drew you taller than the flowers.”

“I’m gonna kill you too if you don’t shut up,” John growled and Sherlock lost his battle to keep a straight face.

Hamish was by Mrs. Hudson when they came home but he ran into the front hallway to greet them. “Did Mrs. Teacher say I was a smarticle? Do you think she’s pretty? I think she’s pretty,” he announced as he hugged Sherlock’s knees.

“You are in very big trouble, little man,” John informed him as Sherlock bent down to pick the boy up. He cut a skinny figure in green train pyjamas with his hair still wet from his bath and he stared at John with big brown eyes.

John softened in spite of himself and he leaned forward to kiss Hamish on the forehead. “Mrs. Emily showed us your art,” he murmured, letting his lips stay resting on his son’s head a beat longer before straightening up.

“Did you like it?” Hamish asked quickly, growing concerned. “Mrs. Teacher says my art is very ant-vans and she hangs it on the special-prize wall sometimes only sometimes when I show her my drawings she gets a funny look on her face like it goes all white and her eye twitches a little like the dead beetle me and Sammy Pucker found on the edge of the recess yard one time that we poked with a stick and then she takes it and puts it in a special folder so did she show you those drawings or other drawings?”

“She was just very worried,” John tried to explain, ruffling Hamish’s hair with his free hand, “because most little boys don’t get to ride in panda cars and do experiments.”

Hamish looked appalled at this news. “But then how are they gonna know if something’s true or not? They gotta lemon-aid all the other oshi-pons and then whatever the rats leave must be true!”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “That is the most mangled version of that expression I have ever heard,” he beamed and Hamish blinked at him.

“What does mangles mean?” he asked and John cut them off.

“How bout Daddy explains it to you as he puts you to bed?” he encouraged, ushering the two boys, one larger than the other, up the stairs. “It’s late.”

“Okay,” Hamish agreed and then leaned forward in Sherlock’s arms to kiss John. “G’night Papa.”

“Night, love,” John kissed back and then he watched them walk up the stairs to the flat as he turned back to thank Mrs. Hudson, smiling as he heard Sherlock begin, “Well Hamish, when I say something is mangled, it simply means-“


	10. Hamish Vs. Black Moods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, where have I been?  
> I really am sorry I disappeared. I was visiting friends in Asia for two weeks and oddly enough, there were very few opportunities to write fanfiction ;). But don't worry, we're back now!

Hamish was waiting by the door in his coat when John came to pick him up from infant school.

“Papa!” he cheered, running to hug John’s knees. “I won the egg race in class! That means I get to be in sports day! Julie Samuels is also gonna be in sports day with me only she’s gonna do the 5 mushrooms race. I tried that one only she ran faster than I did on account of how her legs are longer than mine and also her daddy bought her fancy running trainers.”

John wasn’t sure how one could get mushrooms from meters but he smiled back anyway. “That’s lovely, Hamish. Are parents invited to sports day?”

“I think so,” Hamish confessed, adjusting his rucksack so it sat more comfortably on his back. He took John’s hand and the two of them left the school grounds, waving goodbye to Mrs. Emily. “Mrs. Teacher said she’s gonna send a note home to all the parents once she figures out all the beetles. But she types even slower than you so I think it might take a while.”

“Who says I type slowly?” John laughed as they waited at the corner for the light to change.

“Daddy,” Hamish replied simply and led the march onwards as the light turned green. He suddenly lit up. “I can’t wait to show Daddy my spelling test. He helped me learn all the words and I got a hundred! Really I got one wrong but there was extra credit so Mrs. Teacher said it was all a hundred anyway so he’ll be really proud of me I bet.”

John squeezed his son’s hand. “He will, love. But maybe we should save it for tomorrow. Daddy’s in a thundercloud mood today.”

Sherlock hated the infantile term but Hamish himself had coined it when he was three and faced with a Sherlock “black mood.” He’d stood by the couch, confused as to why his father wasn’t playing with him, before announcing, “Daddy’s dark like a thundercloud.” The name had stuck.

Now Hamish only pouted. “But I wanted to show him,” he complained and John sympathized with the six-year-old.

“I know, baby. He’ll be really excited too,” he promised. “Daddy’s just must smarter than all of us and-“

“I know, I know,” Hamish cut him off, still sulking. “Sometimes he needs ta think deep people thoughts. Only I don’t like that answer on account of how Uncle Mycroft is also super duper smart, even smarter than Daddy sometimes, and he doesn’t have thundercloud moods.”

John laughed. “Maybe don’t tell Daddy that part,” he advised as they walked down the block. “If you want, we don’t have to go home. We could go to the park and feed the ducks.”

Hamish shook his head. “It’s cold outside,” he grumbled. “And rainy.”

“It’s always rainy in London, love,” John ruffled his son’s hair and Hamish leaned into the touch. The boy adored affection; Sherlock often remarked he was like a dog begging for petting. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Mrs. Teacher says that rain is like the sky crying,” Hamish informed his father. “Only I don’t like that ‘splenation cause one time Daddy took me to the bookstore and we read a book about weather and it said rain is preci- pre- participation,” Hamish tripped over the word but kept going. “And the sky sucks up all the water and then lets it all out so I think Mrs. Teacher was lying, I bet.”

“Precipitation,” John sounded out for him and Hamish mouthed the word. “And I think Mrs. Emily was just being silly. Are you sure you want to go home?”

Hamish nodded. “I know the rules,” he soothed his father. “Don’t talk to him, don’t bug him, no singing and no telly.”

John himself had grown up in a home with a lot of unwritten rules for each parent. But when Sherlock wasn’t in a black mood, which was most of the time, he loved Hamish endlessly and spent hours simply fawning over him. So John thought this whole set-up wasn’t the worst thing for a child to have to live with.

 “You’re such a good boy,” John praised and Hamish flushed, tilting his head up for the kiss he knew was coming. John didn’t disappoint. “The best boy,” he grinned, kissing Hamish’s cheeks soundly.

When John had left the flat to pick up Hamish, Sherlock had been curled on the couch with his face pressed into the back. He was in that exact same position when John trooped back in. Hamish, for his part, was an expert at black moods. He slipped his shoes off soundlessly and unzipped his coat.

“Hullo Daddy,” he chirped from the doorway as John hung up his coat. When Sherlock didn’t answer however, he just shrugged and wandered inside.

“Are you hungry?” John asked Hamish and the boy nodded. “So how about I start on dinner and you can do homework.”

Hamish dragged his rucksack to the kitchen table and set himself up to do his work. “Do you need any help?” John asked as he reached above the sink to pull down a pot.

“No thank you,” Hamish smiled back. “It’s just sums. Sums are easy; I can do them on my fingers.”

“Intelligent people can do them in their heads,” Sherlock’s voice drifted in from the living room, dark as, well, a thundercloud.

“Sherlock!” John snapped but Hamish just blinked. He didn’t yet know what the word “intelligent” meant. He did understand the tone however.

“It’s okay, Papa,” he eased. “Daddy’s just grumpy.”

John ground his teeth and absently kissed Hamish’s head. “You are very smart, baby,” he murmured and then went to make dinner before Hamish could ask what was going on.

They didn’t have any flour, so John ran down to Mrs. Hudson’s to borrow some. He left Hamish at the kitchen table with a strict promise not to bother Daddy. He was only down for ten minutes or so, but as he climbed back up the stairs to the flat, he paused in the doorway to the living room, a soft smile flitting across his face.

Hamish had climbed up into the couch and fitted himself in between Sherlock and the back. Sherlock had curved his spine so Hamish could curl into him, their twin heads of black hair formed a mess of curls. Hamish’s fists were clenched in Sherlock’s dressing gown and neither boy was saying a word.

Hamish heard his Papa come back in and picked his head up minutely. “I didn’t break any of the rules,” he argued preemptively but John waved him away.

“It’s alright, baby,” he clucked and Sherlock wordlessly pulled Hamish back into him, spider fingers skittering up his son’s back in a wordless apology for the earlier insult. John just turned back to the kitchen. Hamish still had homework to finish, but John wasn’t going to interrupt.

Maybe they’d all been going about thundercloud moods the wrong way for years. Maybe all one had ever had to do was just cuddle the genius. 


	11. Hamish Vs. Mobiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a little Valentine's Day special that's very late. Shhhhh, I tried.
> 
> I'm also appalling at ratings so if you think this chapter should change it, let me know.

Hamish stood on the steps of Mycroft’s house in a terrific pout. “Why do I have to stay here?” he cried, glaring at his father.

John sighed, lowering himself to one knee so they were eye-to-eye. ”Because Daddy and I are going on a little holiday for three days and that’s too long for Nana Hudson to watch you,” he explained for the fifth time that week.

“But I want to go on holiday with you!” Hamish demanded. Behind John, Sherlock was loading their suitcases into the back of a cab while Mycroft supervised.

John kissed his son’s head. “You wouldn’t want to come with us, love. We’re just going to be sleeping a lot.”

“Why do you haveta go to a hotel to sleep?” Hamish asked, tilting his head.

John leaned in so the two could bump noses and Hamish giggled against his cheek. “Because you won’t let us sleep in the house,” he chided, laughing as he smothered the boy’s face in kisses. “And you and Uncle Mycroft will have your own sleepover, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay,” Hamish sulked and John stood. He reached into his pockets for a crumpled piece of paper and handed it over to the boy.

“This is my mobile number, okay?” John instructed and Hamish took it with careful hands. “You call me if you need me and I’ll always pick up for you. Promise. Now give your Papa a hug.”

Hamish dutifully hugged John’s knees and then let go to run and hug Sherlock, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs with his arms outstretched.

John wandered over to Mycroft as Sherlock swung Hamish up into the air and coaxed a giggle out of him. “Thank you for this, Mycroft,” John said softly and his brother-in-law nodded. “I know he won’t say it but we really appreciate this. We need this, to be perfectly honest.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “John, as far as I am concerned, you and my brother hold hands and perhaps chastely kiss behind closed doors. Please do not ruin that illusion for me,” he begged and John laughed, clapping him on the arm.

“Sherlock?” John called and the genius put his son down and they retreated into the cab, waving madly out the window as they pulled away.

As soon as the house was out of view, John closed the window and the two men turned to face each other- twin smiles gracing their faces.

“I love you for this,” John grinned, and Sherlock returned the wicked smirk.

“We are going to have so much sex,” he murmured, eyes glimmering, and John squeezed his hand.

“We can be _loud_ ,” he whispered reverently. Sherlock only kissed him.

                                                                                *

“God, you’re beautiful,” John gasped, thrusting slowly into Sherlock, their hands interlocked on top of the sheets. The whole thing seemed near dreamlike, with the hotel room bathed in soft candlelight and Sherlock moaning gloriously beneath him.

“John-“ he tried, a fractured sentence, and then a piercing ring cut through the moment.

John was so startled, it took him a minute to realize what the noise was. “It’s my mobile,” he said finally, looking over to the bedside table that held their phones.

Sherlock groaned, “Ignore it,” he ordered, rolling his hips up and John took a moment to refocus.

“What if it’s Hamish?” he sighed.

“He’ll leave a message,” Sherlock begged but John was already reaching across him to pick up the phone.

“Hello?” he asked, sounding a bit dazed to his own ears.

“Papa!” Hamish exclaimed. “Are you having a good holiday?”

John bit his lip to keep from cursing. “Yes baby, we are. Did you need something?”

Beneath him, Sherlock was looking mutinous. “Oh yes! I have a really ‘portant question and I woulda asked Uncle Mycroft only he couldn’t answer on account of how he’s having a meeting with a really nice man named David Camcorder I think but he told me I could just call him David and they’re in the study and I'm not ‘posed to bother them so I had to call you and you said I could call you if I needed to and-“

“It’s alright, Hamish,” John reassured him. “What’s your question?”

“Oh,” Hamish said. He’d quite possibly forgotten he’d even had a question. “Right. So, in the winter when the pond freezes, where do the fish go?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stay calm. “Um, they stay under the ice, baby. They move very slowly- almost like hibernating, remember? We talked about this when we went to Regent’s park in December.”

There was silence on the other end as Hamish struggled to remember. “That’s right, we did!” he finally exclaimed. “Oh, okay. I was just really worried that maybe they died or maybe somebody had to come and take them to the zoo but maybe that person forgot and then we’d have to remind them otherwise the fishes would die-“

“Is that it, love?” John pressed, willing himself to stay patient with his child.

 “Yeah, that’s it,” Hamish agreed.

“Alright then, baby. I’m going to go, okay?”

“Okay!” Hamish cheered. “I love you, Papa.”

“And we love you,” John promised with a soft kiss noise and then he hung up, tossing the mobile back on the bedside table. But the mood had already been taken into a back alley and shot in the head.

Sherlock looked down to where they were joined and where John had rather…lost interest. “We’re going to have to start all over again, aren’t we?” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

“Well excuse me that I'm not aroused by the sound of our son’s voice,” he shot back and Sherlock groaned.

                                                                                                *

John awoke to the soft feel of Sherlock running his fingers up and down his ribs.

“Good morning,” he murmured, leaning up to kiss the genius. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” Sherlock smiled back and they kissed lazily, all soft touches and hazy sunlight. Slowly, Sherlock climbed on top of him, never stopping their kisses as their hands roved over each other’s bodies. John was just starting to properly wake up and give back as good as he was getting when-

-his mobile went off on the bedside table. Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder as the doctor reached across to pick up the phone.

“Hello Hamish,” he sighed softly and Sherlock let out what sounded like a sob into his chest.

“Papa, you’re awake!” the six-year-old cheered. “I had the strangest dream and Uncle Mycroft is in the shower so I wanted to tell you! In my dream there was a unicorn and Uncle Greg was riding it and then there were two dragons and one of the dragons sounded like Daddy and you were riding him only you were really short and had these hairy feet-“

“That sounds like a very strange dream, Hamish,” John encouraged, willing this to end.

“Did you have any strange dreams last night, Papa?” Hamish asked loudly.

John let his head hit the pillow. “I don’t remember any,” he admitted.

“Did Daddy have any strange dreams?” Hamish pushed and John sighed.

“I don’t know love, you can ask him,” he said, handing the phone over to Sherlock who took it with the air of a man on death row.

“Good morning, Hamish,” Sherlock greeted, climbing off of John and settling back against the headboard. “How are you feeling this morning?”

John ran a hand through his hair, let himself have one more look at Sherlock naked and silken across his bed, and then shuffled off to have a very cold shower.

                                                                                *

Sherlock met John’s eyes over the candles, their hands interlocked across the table.

“This is lovely,” John smiled at him softly as the waiter walked off to get their food. “We haven’t had dinner together like this in-“

“Six years, nine months and three days,” Sherlock supplied and John chuckled.

“Something like that,” he laughed, his eyes warm. “But you don’t regret a minute of it, do you?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock protested and squeezed, their heads intimately close. “John,” he started hesitantly, “I know I don’t say this very often but I want you to know that I-“

He was cut off by the shrill ring of John’s mobile from his pocket. They held each other’s gaze for one long minute as the phone rang again and then John let go of Sherlock’s hand to fish his phone out.

“Hello Hamish,” he sighed into the phone.

“Papa, I had the best day at school!” Hamish yelled over the phone. “I got to read the naptime book for the whole class and then I won first in the recess races and Mrs. Teacher said she was gonna hang my drawing on the outside wall-“

“That’s lovely, darling,” John smiled in spite of himself and Sherlock waved the waiter over to change their orders to takeout.

                                                                                *

Hamish ran to greet his fathers in Mycroft’s front hallway, jumping unceremoniously into John’s arms as he set their suitcases down.

“Papa!” he welcomed them, kissing his father soundly. “You said you were gonna be gone three days; it was only a day and a half!”

“We missed you terribly, that’s all,” John promised, kissing his son’s forehead. “You kept calling and calling us so Daddy and I decided we should come home early.”

“I’m so glad you did!” Hamish flung his arms around John’s neck and squeezed tightly. “I missed you so so so so so much!”

“Next time,” Sherlock promised, coming over to take Hamish from John’s arms and hug him earnestly, “we’ll all go on holiday together.” He looked over at John and the two shared a knowing look. “Somewhere with no phone service.”  


	12. Hamish Vs. Parental Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few of you, and by a few I mean nearly all of you, have been asking for a little teenage Hamish. And who am I to refuse my darling readers?  
> This doesn't mean we're leaving baby-Hamish behind though. Expect a lot of age-jumping in the next few weeks. Enjoy, and let me know which age you prefer, if you'd like to.

“Pa?” Hamish’s voice echoed in from the front hall to the den seconds before his own feet pounded up the stairs. “Pa, are you here?”

Sherlock picked his head up from the couch. “Hello Hamish,” he greeted absently.

“Hey Da,” Hamish called back. “Is Pa home?” he asked, dropping his bookbag by the front door and toeing off his shoes.

Sherlock thought about it a minute. “No he’s by your Aunt Harry. Or he’s at work. What day is it again?” he asked.

Hamish smiled indulgently. “It’s Tuesday, Da,” he filled in.

“Ah, then he’s at work,” Sherlock nodded, mostly to himself.

“Have you eaten today?” Hamish asked, padding into the kitchen. “I’ll make you dinner.”

Sherlock vaguely felt that perhaps he was supposed to be doing that but they’d never really been a conventional family. “Later. What is it you needed help with?” he asked instead.

“Oh it’s alright, I’ll wait till Pa comes home,” Hamish brushed off, opening the fridge. He peered in curiously before turning around. “Maggot experiment is going well.”

“Yes it is, don’t touch them,” Sherlock instructed, sitting up. “And don’t change the subject. Now sit down with me. I am perfectly capable of helping you with anything you’d need your Father for.”

“Da, it’s not-“Hamish tried but Sherlock gave him such a glare that he sighed and moved to sit in John’s chair. Once he’d settled, Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

“Go on,” he prompted.

Hamish sighed again but Sherlock could see the back of his eyes light up. “Okay so, there’s this girl-“

“Never mind, wait till your father comes home,” Sherlock cut him off, shivering internally.

Hamish laughed out loud. “Too late now. You asked and I’m supplying,” he teased and Sherlock groaned. “Her name is Laurel. She’s so…I guess fit is the word for it. She’s got these big brown eyes and her laugh-“he zoned out for a moment and Sherlock waited patiently for him to come back to himself. He of all people was sympathetic for when one got lost in their own mind.

“What I’m trying to say is I’m…well I think fancy her. Like, properly,” Hamish finally finished. “We’ve been talking for ages but I don’t know if she’d be open to…more.”

Sherlock tented his fingers beneath his chin, thinking hard. He’d said he could handle it and by Newton he would. He’d just tackle it like a case. “Has she displayed any signs of returned affection?” he asked.

“I don’t know; I haven’t deduced her,” Hamish returned and Sherlock met his gaze.

“So deduce her. Right now, with me,” he instructed and Hamish sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Dilated pupils?”

Hamish thought. “Not really, but we’ve always been in brightly-lit rooms so that doesn’t mean much.”

“Hm,” Sherlock noted. “Body posture?”

“She leans in a lot,” Hamish said forthcomingly. That did seem like something a boy might notice. “And she touches me a lot too- on the arm and thigh and yeah,” he blushed. Sherlock wasn’t sure why.

He moved past it. “Pulse rate?”

“Jesus Da, I haven’t taken her pulse!” Hamish cried, but his eyes were laughing. Sherlock adored prompting that reaction from him.

“You should’ve, that would have been immensely helpful,” Sherlock glared back, laughing with his own eyes and the two shared a knowing look that John called their ‘conspiracy faces.’

“What do I do?” Hamish slumped in the armchair. “What did you do when you figured you fancied Pa?”

Sherlock didn’t even have to remember; he never hid his John memories too deep in the mind palace. “Nothing. I was a bit of a coward when it came to emotions. It was your father who moved first.”

“So basically your advice is I should wait for Laurel to do something?” Hamish smirked.

But Sherlock shook his head. “No, not at all. I’d felt strongly for your father long before either of us acted. We could have had years more together-“ Sherlock paused, swallowing. For some reason his whole body felt hot. Hamish was watching him intently and Sherlock breathed deeply before continuing.

“As you get older, you become more and more aware of how much time you have and how you’ve used it,” he confided. “Nothing is worth putting off.”

There was silence in the flat after he’d finished. Hamish let out a soft breath and then nodded. “Thanks Da,” he said, standing up and walking over to the front door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, thrown off balance. He was no expert at productive talks but he was fairly sure they didn’t end with one party fleeing the building.

But Hamish beamed back at him. “Laurel’s house,” he said, tugging on his coat and sliding back on his trainers. “If I’m not back by dinner-time, don’t freak out.”

Sherlock felt a smile threatening to break through his face. “Yes, alright,” he encouraged and Hamish opened the door. “And Hamish-“ he called and his son turned around. “Good luck.”

Hamish smiled. “Thanks,” he said again and then he left, closing the door behind him. There was a warm feeling in Sherlock chest that felt like his heart was breaking and growing simultaneously. He wasn’t sure how to classify it so he stuck in his mind palace under “being a parent.”


	13. Hamish Vs. The Violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised age-jumping and I deliver.
> 
> Also, do we actually have a real updating schedule? Best not make it official; that's when it'd go wrong, naturally.

“Hamish should really be involved in some extra-curriculars,” John noted from the sofa, watching the nine-year-old running up the stairs to his bedroom. “You know, something for him to do outside of school.”

“He does experiments with me out of school,” Sherlock said from his armchair, sounding offended despite not bothering to look up from John’s medical journal.

“I meant something his teachers might approve of,” John laughed.

Sherlock glanced up, obviously puzzled. “Why? That limits us terribly.”

John ignored the question and let his eyes rove over to Sherlock’s violin case. “He could take music lessons,” he offered and he heard rather than saw Sherlock’s eyes light up.

“Yes! Brilliant John, you are brilliant,” Sherlock cried and John grinned back at him. “He should have started _ages_ ago; I had violin lessons starting from age four-“

“I don’t want to learn the violin,” a voice said seriously from the doorway and both men turned to find Hamish at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hips. “I’ll take music lessons. But not the violin.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “Why ever not?” he asked, scandalized.

Hamish stared unrelentingly. “Because that’s your instrument. I want to play something else.”

“Hamish, millions of people play the violin-“Sherlock tried but Hamish cut him off.

“I don’t care,” he insisted, his voice even.  John had taught him well in the art of Sherlock-managing. “I won’t play it.”

“Please don’t say piano; Mycroft plays piano,” Sherlock begged and Hamish shook his head.

“No piano and no violin,” he asserted. “Nothing you guys already play.”

John lifted an eyebrow teasingly. “I played clarinet in primary-“ he bantered and Hamish looked ready to properly explode.

“No clarinet, no piano and no violin!” he resisted. “I want something different.”

John thought a minute, keeping eye contact with the steaming child in front of him. He was such a mix of the two of them at that moment, black curls in a dramatic flop with a signature John scowl gracing his thin face. It made John’s heart beat just a touch faster.

“How about we go to the symphony and you can pick what instrument you’d like,” he offered gently, like feeding a feral cat. Hamish considered this a moment before nodding.

“Alright,” he agreed hesitantly. “But no-“

“Violin, yes I know,” John soothed. “I’ll order tickets now.”

“Wait a day,” Sherlock grumbled, sliding down in his armchair, “and Mycroft will just give them to us.

* * *

 

Hamish stared entranced at the performance, his eyes wide in wonderment. Sherlock looked over proudly. Hamish was by far the youngest in the audience and perhaps the most well behaved, his back perfectly straight as he watched.

“Well?” John whispered softly, leaning across his armrest so his voice was barely heard. “There are the flutes,” he pointed with minuet motions. “And there’s the harpist. The percussionist is in the back.”

Hamish nodded, not taking his eyes off the scene in front of him. The first violin was just coming forward for a sweeping solo and Sherlock perked up, nudging Hamish with his shoulder. Hamish pointedly ignored him.

“Any of them look interesting to you?” John asked the boy.

Hamish didn’t answer but instead lifted his small finger and pointed to the strings. “I want to play _that_ ,” he said with absolute certainty.

John blinked. “Hamish, that’s a grand cello,” he whispered faintly.

Hamish beamed with the name for his new love. “Cello then. I want to play the cello.”

“It’s bigger than you are!” John gaped and someone shushed them. John flushed and lowered his voice.

The 9-year-old only glowed in his small tux. “I will call her Trudy,” he announced and Sherlock dropped his head into his hands.

“It’s no more than an oversized violin,” he tried and Hamish glowered at him.

“We’ll go to a music shop tomorrow,” John promised quickly, trying to avoid a fight in public.

Sherlock only pouted. “Or we could just wait a day,” he said sullenly and Hamish’s smile was radiant.


	14. Hamish Vs. Theater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teenage Hamish is fun. Honestly, why didn't I do this sooner? Note to self: always listen to you guys. Y'all are geniuses.

Hamish pulled back the velvet curtain one more time, peeking out at the audience, and sighed. Still no sign of his parents.

“Ten minutes to curtain, children,” Mrs. Dubinsky, the drama teacher, called and Hamish hesitated before pulling his mobile out from where he’d stashed it in his period breeches.

The phone rang a few times before his Pa picked up. “Hamish, what’s up?” John asked, a little out a breath.

“Hey Pa, I just-“

“Hold on one second,” his Pa requested and then Hamish heard a tell-tale _whump_. “Yes?”

The fifteen-year-old blinked. “Did you just pistol-whip someone?” he asked incredulously.

“Never you mind,” John brushed off. “Is everything alright?”

“No, if you’re busy it’s not important-“

“Hamish,” John demanded in his no-nonsense voice and Hamish relented.

“It’s just,” he fidgeted nervously as Dara Carmen raced past him in her petticoats and a bra and he swallowed. “My play is tonight. The one I told you about, _Romeo and Juliet?_ ”

He heard his Pa take in an audible breath. “Oh love, I’m so sorry. Your Uncle Greg called and we just- what time does it start?”

“In ten minutes,” Hamish supplied. “But if you’re busy-“

“Listen to me Hamish. We will be there,” John promised. “We just need to- Sherlock, he’s running!” he yelled off to the side and Hamish heard what sounded like two bodies hitting the ground.

“Where the bloody hell are the zip-ties?” he heard his Da yell from somewhere out further and then his Pa yelled back, “I have them. Talk to Hamish, he’s in a play tonight you giant idiot! How the hell did you forget?”

Hamish listened to twenty seconds of shuffling and two muffled moans and then his Da was on the phone. “Hamish, I am an idiot,” Sherlock panted. “But we’ll be there. We just need to-“

“Did you call Lestrade?” Hamish heard John yell, muted.

“Of course I did, ages ago. And that is not how you use a zip-tie, John.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you in the bloody scouts? I know how to subdue a runner, husband dearest!”

“Your father is being pugnacious,” his Da confided and his Pa’s riotous cry of “Hey!” was audible over the phone. “How much time do we have?”

Hamish glanced behind him at the clock on the back-stage wall. “Six minutes,” he said, biting his cheek to keep from laughing.

Sherlock let out a deep breath. “And you’re Romeo which gives us another good seven minutes until you appear onstage,” he calculated and Hamish was not surprised his father knew Shakespeare by heart. “We just need to-“

“Fucking hell, get your hands off me you poof!” someone yelled on the other side of the phone and Hamish heard what sounded like a kick to the ribs.

“Watch your language; my son is on the phone,” his Pa ground out and Hamish grinned. “Tell him we love him and he’ll do marvelous!”

“We love you and you’ll do marvelous,” Sherlock parroted. “A marvelousness we’ll be there to see. Now go get ready.”

“Be careful, Da,” Hamish warned, stifling a giggle, and he rung off. Putting the phone to the side, he took in a deep breath. The phone call had dispelled any nervousness he’d had. He was Hamish Watson. If his parents could take down dangerous criminals while chatting on the phone, he could handle a little school play.

 

Lady Montage, or Jenny Samuels, was just asking Benvolio, his mate Christopher, how the brawl had started when Hamish heard what sounded like the auditorium doors crashing open. There was a general shushing and someone murmuring “so sorry,” and Hamish felt his face lift into a grin.

And when he walked on stage to greet his “cousin,” he glanced out into the audience to find his parents, covered in what looked like mud mixed with blood, sitting proudly in the third row. _Think of sad puppies_ he ordered himself as he tried to school his face into melancholy before he began his lament on Rosaline’s chastity.

After the play ended, and everyone had taken their bows where Hamish had received a surprising standing ovation, he hopped off the stage and into the waiting, grimy arms of his fathers.

“You were marvelous Hamish, an absolute wonder,” his Pa gushed and his Da reached behind him to ruffle his hair.

“Brilliant,” his Da agreed and Hamish glowed with pride. He looked behind his Pa’s shoulder to see his Uncle Greg coming down the aisle.

“Hey kiddo,” Greg smiled, reached out to clap him on the arm. “Great job.”

“You saw me?” Hamish asked, surprised.

Greg reddened. “Just the end of it, sorry. But what I saw was fantastic,” he confessed. “I actually came to collect your parents. We need their statements on the two men they pulled in.”

John glanced over at Hamish. “I thought we might go to dinner, actually,” he mentioned regretfully and Hamish squeezed his hand.

“Actually, there’s a cast party I kinda want to go to,” he excused and his Pa immediately turned back to him.

“Where is it?” he demanded, plastering on his ‘stern father’ face that Hamish and Sherlock enjoyed mocking together behind his back.

“Dara Carmen’s house,” Hamish filled in. “She was Juliet.”

“Do you have your mobile?”

“Fully charged,” Hamish promised.

“Will you be back by ten?”

“Twelve,” Hamish bargained.

“Eleven and no arguments,” John settled. “Do you have money?”

“I don’t need-“

“Sherlock, give him money.”

As his father fished out his wallet to hand him a few quid, John turned back to his uncle. “Yes alright. But we’re ordering takeout from the yard; Sherlock hasn’t eaten since last night.”

Hamish tucked the folded bills into his breeches, useful things really, and hugged his fathers one last time. “Bye,” he murmured, letting John kiss the top of his head for a minute. “Thanks so much for coming.”

His Pa just smiled at him. “We would not have missed this for the world,” he swore and Hamish felt his heart lift.

“Enjoy your paperwork,” he called over his shoulder as he ran back to where the cast was gathering by the edge of the stage. Dara waved to him and he could still taste her cherry lip-gloss from their stage kiss. Maybe tonight he’d end up with one that was unscripted.


	15. Hamish Vs. Daddy Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. We update Fridays, it's official. 
> 
> ....and now I've jinxed us. We're doomed ;)

Hamish sat on the floor of his Uncle Greg’s office, humming to himself as he snaked his toy trains around the leg of one of the desk chairs. John had settled him there around twenty minutes ago and had promptly run off after Sherlock, instructing the four-year-old with how to find him if he needed him.

A short grumble made its way through Hamish’s tummy and he stood, frowning. Papa would have crackers, he thought, toddling towards the door. Or if he didn’t, he could put money into one of the magic machines downstairs that just _gave_ you food.

He had to stand on tiptoe to twist open the door handle but he smiled to himself as he got the glass door open. The hallways were chaotic, with police men and women running around holding files. Hamish felt himself growing more and more anxious and he bit his lip.

“Exsqueeze me,” he called, his voice high-pitched and immediately lost in the din of the crowd. “Exsqueeze me, please.” No one really moved but with a bit of pushing, he found his way around the collection of knees and trouser-legs in his face and ran to the rooms at the end of the hall.

He was hovering on the edge of tears. The hallway had been a rather traumatic experience and he hadn’t yet recovered when he silently pushed the conference room door open and found himself face to knee with the four adults in the room who had not noticed him.

Probably because they were too busy noticing Sherlock who was laying into John with such viciousness, Hamish took an instinctive step back.

“-like that would do us any good! Tell me John, did you actually _go_ to medical school or was that doctorate simply one of those things they give you after you’re shot? A primate with a mobile would be more use to me then you!” Sherlock abused, teeth bared in a terrifying snarl.

Whereupon Hamish promptly burst into tears.

Every single eye in the room fell to him. “Hamish-“ John started softly but the boy turned and bolted, sobbing as he fled down the hall.

“Well done freak; even your own kid is scared of you,” Sally hissed but John shushed her. Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped. He stood, staring at the open doorway, his face slowly sliding from angry to horrified.

“I didn’t-“he tried and John set a hand on his arm.

“I got him. Stay here,” John instructed and he set off down the hall after his small son. It hardly took a detective to find the four-year-old crying underneath Greg’s desk. He was sniffling as John came in but as soon as he caught sight of his father, he began to bawl as though his tiny heart was breaking.

“Daddy’s scary,” he wailed, crawling out from underneath the desk and hurling himself into John’s arms.

The doctor stood carefully, adjusting Hamish’s weight onto his hip. “I know, munchkin. He didn’t mean to be. He’s just working very hard right now trying to help Uncle Greg.”

“Then why was he yelling at you?” Hamish whimpered, his sobs subsiding.

John let out a slow breath as he rocked Hamish back on forth on the balls of his feet, calming him down. “Because sometimes when we’re sad, we hurt the people we love the most,” he offered, unsure the boy would understand.

“Is Daddy mad at you?” Hamish checked, concerned.

“Oh no, love. Of course he’s not,” John promised, kissing one tiny tear-track. “Daddy and I love each other so, so very much.”

“As much as the moon?” Hamish pressed and John nuzzled his nose.

“Even more,” he assured the child. “And we love you most of all.”

Hamish seemed comforted by that. He dropped his head into John’s shoulder and sucked on his lower lip for a few minutes, sedating himself.

When he was no longer shaking with repressed sobs, John turned his head so they locked eyes. “Should we go talk to Daddy?” he prompted.

Hamish nodded against John’s shoulder and John set him down. He immediately latched on to John’s hand and the two of them made their way back to the conference room. Sherlock was in the middle of explaining something but he stopped dead as the two boys came back into the room.

“Hamish-“ Sherlock started and then cleared his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Greg and Sally take a step back. “Are you upset with me?” he tried again and John squeezed Hamish’s hand. The boy shook his head quickly, watching his father through calculating eyes.

“Do you wanna go give Daddy a hug?” John whispered and Hamish let go of John’s hand to run at Sherlock’s knees. The genius seemed surprised by the impact but he quickly bent and scooped the little boy up, holding him close.

“I’m terribly sorry I frightened you,” he apologized in a murmur. “Do you forgive me?”

Hamish understood about every other word of his father’s sentence but he heard the sorry and he nodded soundlessly, bending in to kiss his father’s cheek.

“No more yelling at Papa,” he demanded and everyone in the room chuckled, all the tension drained.

“Deal,” Sherlock agreed, a faint smile flitting across his face.

“Daddies and Papas aren’t ‘posed to yell at each other,” Hamish clarified, as though his earlier ruling had been unclear.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Actually-“ he started and then froze, his eyes nearly doubling in size. “Oh. _Oh_!Hamish, you are a _genius!_ John-“

“Right here,” John laughed, taking Hamish from Sherlock’s arms so the madman could pace the room.

“He must have heard them arguing and assumed the deal was off!” Sherlock was ranting, gathering steam, and John retreated to a corner with Hamish. “But how could he have-“

“Papa?” Hamish inquired cautiously.

“Daddy is just being brilliant,” John explained. “He’s solving a case and saving everyone.”

Hamish still looked alarmed so John turned him in his arms so boy and father were face to face. “Hey, none of that,” John chided, rubbing noses against his son’s. He lifted his index finger and touched it against Hamish’s small button of a nose. “Boop.”

Hamish seemed elated by this new game and he untucked his own small fingers to bop his father’s stubbier nose. “Boop!” he hummed and he giggled when John ‘booped’ him right back.

They were still playing their silly new game when Sherlock seemed to reach his revelation. “They’re east of the Thames. John-“

“I’m going to take him home,” John supplied and he ignored the way Sherlock’s face fell as he turned to Lestrade. “Greg-“

“I’ll keep him safe,” the inspector promised and John nodded.

“And you’ll stay nice and close to the man with the gun, alright?” he ordered Sherlock and the detective nodded sullenly. The two men, joined by Donovan, raced from the room and Sherlock was almost out the conference room door when Hamish called “Daddy!”

Sherlock doubled back, finding himself face-to-face with the child. Hamish reached out and with total impunity, touched Sherlock’s nose with his first two fingers. “Boop!” he cackled and Sally and Greg looked nothing short of stunned.

Sherlock froze a moment, unsure of himself, before he reached back to touch his own long index to his son’s nose. “Boop,” he rumbled, in the most dignified of ways, and Hamish was still giggling as he watched his father run towards danger.


	16. Hamish Vs. Bullies

John often joked that for all his powers of deduction, Sherlock was shockingly unobservant when it came to the people closest to him. But Sherlock noticed immediately upon his return from Bart’s that things in the flat were not as they should have be.

“You’re not supposed to be home right now,” he directed at Hamish, who sat at the kitchen table with an ice-pack to his face. “And neither are you,” he checked, looking at John who sat in the chair across from Hamish, glaring at him furiously.

His husband only let out a low breath. “This is what happens when you let your phone die,” he bristled, and Sherlock was 98% sure John’s misplaced anger was not because Sherlock had forgotten to charge his mobile. Chances were it had something to do with the icepack.

The icepack! “Hamish, are you alright?” he snapped, dropping to his knees by the kitchen chair. “Has he seen a doctor-“

“I had to leave work early today to pick up your son,” John bullied on and Hamish was only _his_ son when he’d done something heinous. “He’s been suspended from school. For _fighting_.”

Sherlock had not expected that. “Fighting?” he repeated, and oh, how he abhorred repetition but the accusation nearly beggared belief. The twelve-year-old was staring resolutely down at the kitchen table as though wishing he could vanish, but John was unrelenting.

“He punched a boy in the nose,” the doctor informed Sherlock in a forced tone. “We are lucky his family is not pressing charges-“ here John had to pause to take a calming breath before continuing. “We’ll have to arrange with Mrs. Hudson to check on him for the next three days, unless you want to take him to work with us.” Sherlock understood sarcasm enough to recognize the offer was not a serious one.

Hamish was deathly silent through John’s restrained tirade and he didn’t so much as flinch when John stood from the kitchen table. “Do you want to maybe tell your father what the fight was about, since you won’t tell me?” he prompted but the boy didn’t answer. John let out a huff and ran his left hand through his hair.

“Unbelievable,” he ground out. “I keep you from getting expelled and now _I’m_ the bad guy? I’m going to- I don’t know, get dinner,” he sighed, exasperated. “Sherlock, you try talking to him,” he ordered as he shrugged his own coat on and stomped out the door.

Sherlock waited until he’d heard the pounding of John’s feet down the stairs and the slam of the front door before taking his own coat off. He hung it up and then sat gingerly in the chair his better half had just vacated. Hamish sat still as his father’s eyes roved over him, taking in every small scrap and torn nail.

“You started the fight,” Sherlock remarked suddenly, shattering the silence. It wasn’t a question but Hamish nodded. Sherlock could see a wicked black and blue peeking out from beneath the ice pack.

“Did you win?” he asked and Hamish’s eyes widened in complete surprise.

Caught off-guard, the pre-teen stammered out an answer. “No. It was six against one, I never stood a chance.”

Oh. Well that changed things. “Does your father know it was you against six boys?” Sherlock checked, actively trying not to see red, and Hamish shook his head.

“Three had scattered by the time someone came to break up the fight. By the time we got to the office, it was just me and Jack, that’s the boy-“ Hamish tripped over the words.

“You ‘decked’,” Sherlock filled in, letting his tongue snap on the ‘k.’ Hamish had the good sense to look embarrassed.

He studied his son another moment before shaking his head, letting a tiny, sad smile creep across his face. “Your father and I are grown men, Hamish. We do not need you defending our honour,” he said gently and Hamish’s head snapped up.

“How did you-“ the boy tried and then cut himself off. “Of course,” he muttered and Sherlock tried not to preen. Hamish sighed and met his father’s eyes over the table.

“They weren’t insulting you directly,” he explained. “They were just saying things about gays in general and being overall homophobic dicks- sorry,” he apologized immediately, shocked at himself for using such language in front of his father, but Sherlock waved it away.

“And where was the little rat pack you so enjoy traveling with?” he pressed.

“I was coming out of the theatere trailers,” Hamish sighed. “I was alone and they were coming from track or something equally awful, bunch of chavs talking utter shi- nonsense and I just-“ he dropped his head into his free hand. “I knew I was going to lose as soon as I punched. But I couldn’t just let them think that they can get away with saying things like that. Like no one cares.”

Sherlock was quiet a moment, letting everything properly file itself. And then he stood. “Stand up,” he ordered and Hamish immediately obeyed, pushing his chair back. He was growing like a weed, already taller than John, and Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if one day they might be eye-to-eye. “Show me how you punched.”

It was clear Hamish had grown up in their odd house because he didn’t question the odd command but instead immediately pulled his arm back and stopped as Sherlock’s hands touched him.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t break your hand,” his father tisked, large palms making contact with Hamish’s hips. “Tuck your thumb in or you’ll lose it,” Sherlock warned and Hamish immediately corrected. “And settle your weight here, or you’ll fall the minute you swing.”

It was clear Hamish was lost, but he complied in taciturnity. “What are you doing Sunday?” Sherlock asked conversationally.

Hamish thought a second. “I was supposed to go with Sam and Chrissy to the-“

“Cancel it,” his father ordinated. “It’s time I taught you how to box.”

Hamish spun around to face him. “Wait. So, I’m not in trouble?” he asked, bewildered and Sherlock let out a soft laugh.

“No, you’re not,” he promised, sitting back down. “I’ll talk to your father. You can go shower.”

 Hamish still looked shocked, as though a rug had actually been pulled out from under him, but he seemed to know when to scuttle and so he rushed out of the kitchen, head low.

Just as he was about to clear the room, Sherlock called out, “Oh, Hamish?” and the boy spun around, nervousness creeping back into his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you,” Sherlock conceded and he had the pleasure of watching Hamish turn beet-red down to his neck.

“Thanks,” he muttered awkwardly and then left. Sherlock waited until he heard the shower running before settling back in his chair with a sigh. He had no idea why John made such a fuss about it; parenting was ridiculously simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say, cause I feel like i don't say it enough, that you guys are the best. The wind beneath my proverbial sails. The Jack to my Rose (I'll never let you go). xoxoxo


	17. Hamish Vs. Drugs Bust

Hamish was waiting by the microwave when the doorbell rang. With an almighty sigh, he started for the stairs and stopped short as footsteps pounded up to meet him. The front door swung open to reveal Greg Lestrade.

“Oh- hey kiddo,” Greg tried an awkward smile, scratching the back of his head. “Your fathers home?”

“Hey Uncle Greg,” Hamish said hesitantly, aware something was wrong. “Erm, no. I figured they were out working with you. Why are you here?”

“About that-“Greg started but the thirteen-year-old peered behind his uncle, utterly confused.

“Why is forensics here?” he asked as people started to shift up the stairs. “And like half of IT? And, hey Sally!”

Sally Donovan froze on the threshold. “No one said the kid would be here,” she said accusingly, looking back at Greg.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” his uncle asked gently but Hamish wasn’t calmed.

“No, I stayed home sick,” he explained as twelve or so yarders pushed past Greg and entered the flat. “Who are all these people?” he demanded, growing frantic as they began to root through the flat. “Why are they touching our stuff?”

Sally looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Boss,” she whispered, inching closer, as Hamish grew more and more upset.

“Hey, put that down!” he yelled at an unresponsive man in blue as he lifted up the couch cushions. Another woman popped open Sherlock’s violin case and Hamish ran towards her. “Leave that alone!” he demanded, confused. He watched the ransacking of his home for a few more minutes, utterly speechless, before turning to his uncle. “Uncle Greg, why are you letting them do this?”

Greg had the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he muttered, not meeting his ‘nephew’s’ eyes. “We just think your parents might be withholding some evidence-“

“I _love_ drug’s busts,” Anderson crowed as he waltzed through the door and all three pairs of eyes swung on him.

“Drug’s bust?” Hamish repeated, utterly lost.

“You idiot,” Sally glared at him and the forensic pathologist slunk away towards the kitchen. Hamish turned on his uncle, stepping closer.

“I thought you were looking for evidence. Why would there be drugs here?” he asked, trying to understand what he was missing. “Ms. Hudson only uses herbal soothers for her hip.”

Sally opened her mouth, suppressing a wince, and at that moment the downstairs door opened. There were frantic feet on the stairs and then John and Sherlock were bursting through the open door.

“Dad, Pa!” Hamish moved towards the door and John immediately extended a hand to him, glancing quickly at the policemen in his home.

“They said it’s a drug’s bust,” Hamish whispered to his father as soon as he drew near enough. “Why would there be drugs in our house? Do we need to warn Ms. Hudson?”

“It’s because your father has a thing for drugs, doesn’t he?” Anderson taunted calmly from the kitchen and John felt his breath catch.

Sherlock’s eyes flared dangerously. “Get out of my home,” he said suddenly, tone undeniably firm.

All the detectives in the room froze, looking over. “We still haven’t found-“ Anderson started and in two steps, Sherlock had strode to the shelf, snatched up a broken mobile, and tossed it at the forensic.

“Here is your bloody piece of evidence,” he snarled, baring his teeth. “Now if you’re done undermining my husband and I in front of our son, in our home, kindly GET OUT.”

The silence echoed through the flat and Hamish instinctively shrunk closer to his father, burrowing in John’s jumper. Greg looked around helplessly before nodding. “You heard the man,” he said softly. “Everyone out.”

As the officers filed down the stairs, Greg stepped closer to the small family. “Look John. Sherlock, we didn’t have a choice-“

“I think it’s best you go,” John said firmly. “We need to talk to our son in private.”

Greg looked down at the thirteen-year-old and then nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Wordlessly, he followed the rest out. When they heard the front door close, Sherlock slammed the flat door shut, vibrating with repressed rage.

“Dad?” Hamish called out cautiously and John put a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s sit down,” he advised and Hamish swallowed. He didn’t like where this was going.

Once tea had been made and served, and Hamish had settled on the sofa with John and Sherlock sharing an armchair pulled in front of him, John nudged his husband.

“Right yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, your father and I were not withholding evidence, per say, but rather using it privately until we’d learned more from it.”

"No, I get that," Hamish agreed, cause he did. It was hardly the first time his parents had squirrelled away a phone, a handbag, or on one memorable occasion, a live parakeet. "But why a drugs bust?"

John looked at his husband encouragingly. Sherlock took a breath before going on, fiddling nervously with the handle of his mug. “We would have rather waited to tell you but Anderson," here he paused to grit his teeth, "rather let the cat out of the proverbial bag. They used a drugs bust because for a _brief_ period of time, long before I ever met your father, I had, shall we say, a history with drugs,” he offered, uncomfortably.

Hamish stared, rooted to the sofa in shock. “It was an absolutely horrible phase in my life, I regret every second of it, and we wanted to keep that part of me from you for as long as possible,” Sherlock rambled, not meeting his son’s eyes.

“This should not change your perception of your father, or your attitude towards drugs,” John stated firmly and Hamish swallowed.

“I just can’t believe-“ he whispered, bereft. “You, of all people-“

“It was a mistake,” Sherlock explained, trying to be gentle. “One I regret until this day. And one I wanted to spare you from.”

“Why?” Hamish asked, unnaturally perceptive, and Sherlock would have bristled with pride if he hadn’t been so uncomfortable.

“Many reasons,” he confessed. “Most I would never tell you about, because I am your father and you are my son and you should not know everything about my life. But mostly because I had not yet found my calling and I was lost. I did not have the…support system your father and I have tried to create for you. I was rather alone.”

“And Uncle Mycroft?” Hamish prompted.

“Helped me get clean,” he supplied and this seemed to satisfy the child. “We would have told you, perhaps when you were older, but because it came up, we are explaining.”

Hamish nodded, understanding in some small part just what trust was being placed in him. Children often don’t realize when someone has handed them their heart, Hamish no exception, but he knew he was standing on fragile ground. “Thank you for treating me like an adult,” he responded, because he did appreciate that, and Sherlock looked relieved.

John smiled encouragingly. “Come on,” he said, standing. “Let’s get this flat back in order.”

And so the rest of the night was spent putting cushions back in the couch and reorganizing Sherlock’s mold samples. And if father and son kept brushing shoulders through the ordeal, John never commented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted in a hurry. Let me know if you see any mistakes :)


	18. Hamish Vs. New Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of you, nearly as many of you as had wanted a teenage Hamish, have been asking for a Watson sibling. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I let that ship sail when I made Hamish a teenager all by his lonesome. But I believe in giving the people what they want and so I present to you: quasi-sibling! Sorta. Bear with me.  
> For the rest of April I'll being doing a little connecting story line (all one-shots, calm yourselves). I know I'm suggesting some pretty improbable/partially illegal things in this chapter but just go with it. Love ya!  
> \- Shay

“Poor girl,” John muttered to his husband as they stood in Greg’s office. “Those sons of bitches are lucky they weren’t there because god knows I’d-“

He stopped as the office door swung open and Greg walked in. “I just talked with her a little,” he filled them in, Donovan following in his wake. “She’s not saying much; no surprise, she’s barely eight. But she knows names, she can identify faces. She can put the whole operation behind bars.”

“They’ll come after her,” John realized with a jolt and Greg nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Bunch of traffickers like that won’t hesitate to kill her,” the inspector agreed. “We’re going to have to keep her in some form of protection. Donovan, do we have any foster homes with witness protection?”

“We can take her,” Sherlock said suddenly, speaking up for the first time since they’d found the girl, hog-tied, in the basement of an abandoned cellar. They’d been hunting down a ring of child traffickers for weeks now and she was the first lucky break they’d had.

“She’s not just some piece of evidence you can bring home-“ Sally admonished but Sherlock ignored her, turning right to Lestrade.

“It makes perfect sense,” he said, speaking over Donovan. “We’re all set up to take care of an eight-year-old; Hamish’s room has a trundle bed. John and I are perfectly capable of keeping a child safe and if you’re worried, I can have my brother increase surveillance on our flat.”

“Wait- increase?” John repeated, turning on his husband, but Lestrade was nodding.

“That may actually the best we have on such short notice,” he rationalized and Sally looked scandalized. “Do either of you have any experience dealing with an abused child?”

John bit his lip. “More than we’d like to, yes. But we’ve never had one living with us.”

“It’d only be for a few days,” Sherlock argued. “We could handle it.”

“For god’s sake!” Sally cried out, throwing her hands into her hair. “Sir, you cannot be agreeing to this. You know Holmes, he’ll end up grilling her for hours-“

“Has it perhaps crossed your small, underdeveloped brain,” Sherlock snarled, turning feral, “that every time I see her I cannot help but substitute her for-“ he stopped, biting the inside of his cheek, and the whole room held their breath. “I want to help her. _Need_ may be a better word. We will not hurt her.”

Sally looked down, properly embarrassed, and John spoke up softly. “Maybe we should ask her?” he offered and Sherlock turned a gentler look on his husband.

“Excellent suggestion,” he bristled and Lestrade led them to the conference room, pretending not to notice as John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s, squeezing down reassuringly.

The girl, Chloe, was sitting at the metal table, dwarfed in her large chair. Her blonde locks were a ragged, muddy mess and purple bruises highlighted her cheeks. She looked up as they entered, her gaze immediately fixing to Sherlock.

“Hello, Chloe,” Sherlock said, sitting down across from her.

“Hullo,” she whispered, small hand snaking out to clutch at Sherlock’s extended fingers. John was vividly reminded of how she’d clung to Sherlock’s jacket not two hours earlier as he’d carried her from the rubble. “I don’t like it here.”

“I know, it’s awfully drafty,” Sherlock smiled and Chloe giggled, a rare sound. “We’ll have to come back tomorrow, but for now you need a place to sleep. John and I wanted to know if you’d like to stay at our house.”

Chloe shifted her blue eyes over to John, who did his best to look non-threatening. “We have a son who’s just your age. He’d love to have someone to play with,” John mentioned and Chloe turned back to Sherlock.

“Show me,” she demanded and Sherlock turned on his phone before handing it to her- Hamish was his background. She studied the picture of the black-haired boy for a minute before nodding. “He looks nice,” she agreed and John smiled.

“He is,” he promised. “And he loves having people over. Would you like to stay with him for a few days?”

Chloe went back to holding Sherlock’s hand. “Will you be there?” she checked. Since he’d rescued her, Sherlock had become her new deity. He nodded and she squeezed back. “Okay,” she agreed and John heard a sigh of relief from behind them. Lestrade.

“Would you like to walk on your own?” Sherlock offered. “Or would you prefer to be carried?”

Chloe stood, too-thin legs shaking slightly beneath her. “I will walk,” she announced, grasping Sherlock’s hand, and he led her slowly out of the building.

Lestrade followed behind them with John, handing him materials and filling him in on what time to expect the therapists, what times he had to call to check in, the policemen who’d be stationed in front of the flat, and what times she’d need to be back in the station. He promised to text John the details as they got into a taxi and then Chloe was alone with two strangers.

John had worried she’d panic, but she seemed too shell-shocked to respond. They bundled her gently past a sleeping Mrs. Hudson and up to the flat. Hamish had been put to bed hours ago by said Mrs. Hudson but at the sound of their footsteps, he raced downstairs.

“Papa! Daddy!” he cried, flinging himself at them before stopping short and staring at the new addition. “Hullo,” he remarked, puzzled, and Chloe stared at him.

“Hamish, this is Chloe,” John explained, holding her lightly by the shoulders. “She’ll be staying with us for a few days.”

“Oh,” Hamish responded, caught off-guard, and John quickly turned to his husband.

“Sherlock, will you give Chloe a bath?” he asked and Sherlock nodded, taking the girl’s small hand and leading her unresistingly to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, John bent down to look his own son in the eye.

“Hamish, darling, do you remember two years ago when some not nice bad men took you from the house?” he started, unsure how to explain the situation.

Hamish nodded emphatically. “Yeah. And they were smelly and mean only not so mean cause they really never hurt me and I was kinda scared only daddy’s voice helped me use my squishy brain and not be so scared and then we had a cuddle pile with hot cocoa and marshmallows and I gots to use six and a half marshmallows which is a lot, I think.”

“Right,” John agreed. “Well, some not nice men took Chloe too, only they took her for a long time. Daddy was able to save her. Now she’s going to stay with us until we find her family.”

Hamish looked scandalized. “Oh my flowerpot!” he exclaimed, throwing his tiny arms up. “Who would ever do such a not nice evil thing? Did daddy punch them in the nose like he did that one time when there were three men in a black van and you pulled out the gun I'm not posed to tell anyone that you have cause it’s a super hush hush secret?”

John had no idea how to answer that. “Come help me make tea,” he said instead and Hamish took the conversation change in stride, following his papa into the kitchen. He pushed his stepstool forward so he could get the tea leaves while John turned on the kettle.

“No one got punched in the face,” he tried carefully, fetching a cup. “Chloe just needs a place to stay and we’re helping. Would you be okay if we pulled out the extra bed in your room and let her sleep there?”

John shouldn’t have worried. Hamish looked like Christmas had come early. “I get to have a sleepover for a whole bunch of days?” he repeated, not believing his luck. “That’s the bestest thing that’s happened to me this whole entire day!”

John laughed, coming back to the kettle just as it beeped. “I'm happy to hear that,” he smiled, filling the cup and opening the fridge to get milk. He would make Chloe’s tea like he did Hamish’s, with too much milk and a healthy dose of sugar. Well, maybe not so much sugar before bed.

“But Hamish,” he said, stooping to a whisper and his son leaned in. “People were very mean to Chloe. She might not talk very much. She might also get nightmares.”

Hamish took this in sagely, nodding as he processed. “I understand,” he reassured his father, stirring the small cup. “I’ll just do what Daddy does whenever you get a nightmare.”

John smiled. “And what does Daddy do?” he checked.

“Tell you that it’s okay, you’re safe now,” Hamish repeated carefully.

John ruffled his hair. “Such a smart boy,” he beamed, helping Hamish off the stepstool. “Come on. Let’s go set up the extra bed.”

They had just finished pulling the bed out and setting up the sheets and pillows when Chloe came out of the bathroom. She was a warm pink and her hair looked an entirely different shade, like filtered sunlight. She had been wrapped carefully in a pair of Hamish’s pyjamas, the two were roughly the same size, and Hamish proudly presented her with the cup of tea.

“You look very nice,” he murmured, not at all offended his bear pyjamas had been repossessed and Chloe blushed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sipping the tea, before beaming back at Hamish. “You made it perfect,” she cheered and Hamish puffed out his chest.

“I know,” he agreed and John covered his mouth to hold back a giggle.

Chloe looked ready to collapse and as soon as she’d drank a little of the tea, John led both children up to bed. Chloe looked at the comfy sheets, surprised, before clambering in and tucking herself into the piles. She looked ready to drop off but Hamish carefully selected a bear from his collection of stuffed creatures and handed it to her.

“Here,” he smiled, passing it off. “Mr. Wiggins of Northampton will keep you safe.”

Chloe was caught utterly off guard. “Thank you,” she whispered and Hamish smiled to himself.

John and Sherlock shared small, proud looks. “Lights out, you two,” John said before hitting the switch. He followed Sherlock downstairs, watching him sink into the couch as he moved to clean up in the kitchen. It was quiet for a few moments before Sherlock suddenly spoke up, a low rumble from the couch.

“I just can’t help picturing what they must have done to her,” he confessed and John froze.

“What matters is she’s safe now,” John replied after a moment. “And we’ll catch the bastards who did this. But we’re no good to her exhausted. Come to bed.”

“John, I can’t sleep now-“ Sherlock protested but John took his hand.

“I know,” he confided. “But lie with me?”

They had been married long enough for Sherlock to understand perfectly, standing up and following his husband to the bedroom.

John had just drifted off to sleep, tucked against a warmer body, when a piercing shriek filled the flat. Sherlock was up in seconds, John following close behind, as they raced up to Hamish’s room. John was ready to barrel through but Sherlock had paused by the open door, staring at the scene within.

Hamish had gathered a shaking Chloe into his arms, sitting up with her in her bed. “Shhhh,” he eased, rubbing her back as she sobbed. “You’re safe here. The not nice evil men can’t find you here. My fathers are the toughest men in the whole wide world and my uncle Mycroft had more eyes than a Durga! Do you know what that is?”

Chloe shook her head, hiccupping a little, as she clutched Mr. Wiggins tightly to her chest.

“She’s a Hindu goddess that I saw in a museum once with my daddy. She has three eyes. My uncle Mycroft only has two eyes but they can see the whole wide world like a great big ugly bird!”

Chloe let out a surprised giggle and Hamish seemed encouraged. “Do you wanna hear about the other gods I saw in the museum?” he asked and Chloe nodded quickly, leaning into him.

“Should we send them back to bed?” John asked softly as Hamish launched into a long and factually incorrect speech on the god Shiva.

But Sherlock only shook his head, watching the scene with eyes that John would never have admitted shone with unshed tears.


	19. Hamish Vs. An Old Friend

“-and here are some sandwiches,” John continued, handing a small, foil-wrapped, package to his husband. “And you have the snacks I gave you.”

“John, we’ll be fine,” Sherlock promised, resting a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “Won’t we, kids?”

Chloe and Hamish paused in their frantic chase of each other through the house. Chloe had jumped on top of the couch to seek sanctuary and Hamish was mid-clamber over the arm. “Yes Daddy,” Hamish called back at the same time Chloe let out a “yes Uncle Locky.”

They’d tried to get her to say Sherlock with little success. She’d seemed bent on Locky and the therapist had encouraged them to let her name things in a way that was comfortable for her.

.As it was, the therapist was making amazing strides with Chloe. They met every other morning and after only a week and a half, Chloe was slowly becoming more and more talkative. She was sleeping better, eating better, and Sherlock and john had started hoping for miracles. The resilience of children, the therapist had explained, but it was a wonder to watch.

“Thank you for doing this,” John said softly and Sherlock leaned forward to kiss his forehead in a surprising display of affection.

“Go take care of your sister,” he encouraged. “Kids, say goodbye and let’s go.”

Hamish scrambled to wrap his arms around his papa’s legs and squeezed tight. Chloe was very sensitive about touching people and letting them touch her, so she stood a few paces behind. John made sure to smile brightly at her and she smiled shyly back.

“Bye Uncle Johnny,” she murmured and John blew her a kiss, which sent her into a tiny fit of giggles. Hamish was one of the few people she voluntarily touched, and so she took his hand and followed Sherlock out of Baker Street and towards the park.

Sherlock was fond of calling people idiots. It had always been a passion of his, but ever since he’d had Hamish, he’d taken greater pleasure in it. Mostly because now he could say they spoke with less wisdom than his eight-year-old.

“If you could be any vegetable, which one would you be?” Hamish asked Chloe as they followed a few tiny paces behind Sherlock, their interlocked hands swinging in between them.

Okay, maybe not _everything_ Hamish said.

Chloe considered this question for a minute. “I think I’d wanna be a carrot,” she offered.

“I’d be a corn,” Hamish explained animatedly. “See, cause then I could be so many things! I could be baked, raw, mashed. And I could even be popcorn! And if I was popcorn I could see a lot of films cause popcorn lives in the cinema and I could just jump out of the little glass case and roll into the theater only I might not be able to see so well on account of how popcorn can’t jump up into a seat.”

Sherlock bit back a laugh but Chloe seemed very convinced by this. “I could be corn too. Then we could be corn friends,” she suggested shyly.

“We don’t have to be corn friends!” Hamish cried, shocked. “We’re people friends.”

“Good,” Chloe whispered and Sherlock turned around to find her blushing gently, a pleased smile on her face.

“Hold hands while we cross the road,” Sherlock instructed. Hamish dutifully took his hand and Chloe held his hand by proxy. They crossed into the park and Sherlock walked them carefully to the playground where he bent down to look them both in the eye.

“I’m going to sit on that bench over there,” he pointed. “If you need me, you’re wise enough to know what to do. Do we comprehend each other?”

Both children nodded sagely and Sherlock released Hamish’s hand, freeing them to run amok. Which they did, professionally. With a weary sigh, Sherlock wandered over to the aforementioned bench where he sank down and watched the two children run wild.

Chloe and Hamish played so nicely together, at first he didn’t notice the woman sitting next to him. An unforgiveable offence really, but he’d been so absorbed in watching Hamish help Chloe climb the jungle gym and then go down the slide together with her, giggling as they fell in a heap on top of each other.

“Beautiful children,” the woman said suddenly and Sherlock’s breath caught.

“Irene,” he greeted after a moment and he watched her mouth quirk into a half-grin. Her hair was down around her shoulders, ridiculous sunglasses obscuring her face.

“They look like you and John,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Little blonde helplessly following the dashing raven-haired boy. But only one is yours, unless I missed something.”

“What are you doing in London?” Sherlock pressed, trying not to notice how right Irene was, how much Chloe really did look like a young Watson. She was watching Hamish with wide eyes and an expression of such awe, Sherlock could see John in her face.

Irene ran a hand through her hair. “Taking care of some business,” she said vaguely. “Don’t worry. I’ll be heading back to the colonies before someone manages to behead me. Now who’s the little girl?”

Sherlock sat silently and Irene sighed. “Oh, don’t be temperamental,” she chided. “I’ll just find out anyway. Might as well be from you.”

“She’s a foster child,” Sherlock lied carefully. “We’re watching her.”

“No family?” Irene pressed and Sherlock shrugged. “Oh, that’s interesting,” she mused.

“Don’t,” Sherlock warned and Irene turned to look at him for the first time.

“Well, you’re very loyal very quickly,” she laughed and Sherlock just glared at her. After a beat, she raised her hands in mock surrender. “I don’t want anything with your pixie prom queen; criminal’s honor. And besides, I’m one of the good guys now.”

Sherlock let out a laugh and Irene swatted him. “I am,” she promised. “The girl just intrigues me is all. I’ll have some inquires to make.”

She looked at Sherlock, taking her glasses off for a moment. He could see her eyes, the same warm brown that had ruined him for a while. “I wanted to congratulate you and John when Hamish was born, but I think I was in Budapest. That’s what, eight years ago? God, how time runs from us,” she paused, considering him. “I would have wrecked you,” she admitted suddenly. “It’s better you’re with someone who builds you.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond and then stopped as he saw Hamish pushing Chloe on the swings, much higher than he was comfortable with. “One moment,” he excused briskly as he stood and strode over to the wings.

“Not so high, Hamish,” he called out and Hamish looked at him, surprised. Chloe was soaring through the air like some sort of bird and Sherlock looked up to see her holding on to the chains  with her eyes closed, the first true blissful expression on her face he’d seen since she’d come to them.

“She’s happy, Daddy,” Hamish explained in an eight-year-old’s version of a whisper and Sherlock swallowed.

“I know just- not so high,” he protested meekly and Hamish dutifully slowed the swing down a bit. Sherlock looked back towards his bench but Irene was gone, her words about builders and wreckers circling through his head as he watched Hamish push Chloe, beaming as she let out a chocked laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's joined our little cast! Is she gone for good? Who can say? Especially not me... *dramatic wink*
> 
> You know how people like to quote great literature, philosophers etc in conversations? Well Irene likes to quote... (make of that what you will.)


	20. Hamish Vs. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late, my darlings. My computer was giving me grief but all is well!
> 
> I'm just as sad to see Chloe go as you are, but we'll find a way to keep bringing her back in. Thank you guys for making me do this. Y'all have the best possible ideas :)

John fidgeted with Chloe’s hair, smoothing it back into a ponytail. “Detective Greg is a very nice guy,” he promised, helping the nervous eight-year-old tug down her skirt. They’d picked the nicest outfit she had, out of the old clothes friends had donated, in an effort to calm her down.

“Your therapist will be present with you,” Sherlock reassured her. “You are not required to say anything you don’t want to say.”

Chloe nodded, even though the word ‘required’ was a bit above her. “I’m not scared,” she lied and John knelt in front of her to kiss her head.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he said gently. “If you do, Amelia will be there next to you to help.”

At that moment the conference room door opened and Greg walked out with Chloe’s therapist. “We are ready whenever you are,” he offered, maintaining a safe distance, and Amelia extended a hand.

“I got you a coke,” she bribed and Chloe’s mouth twitched upwards in a hesitant smile. “Come, you’ll sit next to me. They brought you pillows so you can see over the table, just like a princess.”

Chloe giggled and took Amelia’s hand with only a quick look back. “Uncle Locky?” she asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

“I’ll be outside,” he pledged. “But I’m not allowed in. You should feel very special.” In truth, Sherlock had refused to be present in the room. John knew it was because he couldn’t bear to hear her story.

In a moment of pure whimsy, he awkwardly blew her a kiss and she reached out to catch it like John had taught her. Still giggling, she allowed herself to be led into the room and then the door shut.

John seemed to deflate like a balloon. “Where’s Hamish?” he asked, unconcerned. The boy had had the run of this building since he was three; he wasn’t about to get lost. “The vending machine is just downstairs.”

“He’ll be sad he didn’t see her go in,” Sherlock noted as they sunk into chairs stationed against the wall. Hamish had actually run down to buy Chloe chocolate, claiming, “it makes everything better, like in Harry Potter!” John had started reading them the series years ago, but he was plateauing them at book three, to Sherlock’s chagrin. John just wanted Hamish to at least be nine before they introduced him to major character death.

“Might be best,” John figured. “I barely kept it together.” He was silent a moment, covering his jaw with his palm. “I know it’s stupid but she’s been with us so long I’ve started to think of her as-“

“Me too,” Sherlock confessed and John started at him before dropping his head down. Chloe had been with them a little over a month before Amelia had declared her fit to interview. John was having trouble imagining what their lives would even look like after she left.

A pair of kitten heels appeared in John’s line of vision and he lifted his head to meet eyes with the woman in front of him. “Dr. Watson?” she checked and John smiled at her.

“Agent Clarkson,” he greeted cordially. “Any news?”

“Yes, actually,” she informed them and both men startled. Not from NSY, Sherlock suspected Mycroft involvement, Agent Clarkson had been assigned to find some remnant of Chloe’s family, or next of kin, with no success in five weeks. John had quietly begun to give up hope.

“It’s a little unbelievable to be honest,” she started, trying a smile. It didn’t quite suit her- Sherlock appreciated that. “We had just about given up, had started looking into foster care, when this tip came in from an anonymous source telling us to look in Florida. Even gave us a town, it was like our research was done for us.”

Sherlock had some idea where that tip might have come from. “With all due respect Agent,” he began but she cut him off.

“This is not our first pony show, Mr. Holmes,” she assured him. “There’s an Aunt in Longwood. She’s coming in on a flight tomorrow to see Chloe. Supposedly they met when Chloe was just a baby but she’s next in kin. Apparently she’s been looking for Chloe for four years. Florida police already gave up. We couldn’t find her because Chloe’s birth name isn’t Chloe- that’s what her captors named her. ”

“And Chloe’s parents?” John prompted, scared to hear the answer.

“Ms. Barret says they were murdered,” Agent Clarkson filled in, deceptively calm. “Home invasion. That’s when they took Chloe.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “So it’s settled then,” he assessed clinically, easy to mistake for detached and uncaring but John knew him better. “Chloe will live with her aunt in America.”

“No!” a petrified voice shouted out and John had honestly forgotten they were waiting for Hamish. The boy in question raced forward and began raving, light eyes frightened.

“You can’t take her away! She’s ours! Daddy, tell them!” he cried and John turned his attention to his hysterical son.

“Hamish, people can’t belong to other people,” John said pointedly, ignoring the look Sherlock gave him. “Chloe is not ours. She was staying with us while she needed us. But now she needs to go back to her family.”

Hamish looked to be on the verge of crying. “We’re her family,” he begged, voice breaking, and John knelt to gather his son in his arms, small and terrified.

“We’re her foster family,” John explained in a hush. “We took care of her until her blood family could take her. She’ll be happier with them.”

“You can’t know that,” Hamish argued, brilliant as always, and John marveled at him.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, joining in, and Hamish looked to his dad. “But it’s a very likely outcome. Chloe’s family wants her desperately. They will devote their every attention to her. Your father and I are not equipped to care for two children.”

“She can keep sleeping in my room!” Hamish rationalized, trying to puzzle out the word ‘equipped.’ “She’ll share my food, I always have leftovers, and she can share a chair with me in school if that costs a lot. We can share clothes and if she wants a dress I can buy her one with some of the birthday money Uncle Mycroft gave me. I’ll take care of her.”

John felt like his heart was breaking but it was his job to be the better out of the two of them at staying firm. “She does not belong here,” he responded simply.

“She’s my best friend,” Hamish broke, sobbing, and Sherlock wavered. John could see it in his face; Sherlock had no resistance to Hamish’s tears. It’d taken them months to train Hamish to fall asleep alone; Sherlock always came back when he cried.

“if you love her, Hamish,” John tried using a different tactic, “then you’ll want what’s best for her. Do you think Chloe could be happy living like you do? With daddy’s experiments in the fridge and crime scenes during playgroup time and policemen coming in late at night?”

It was a testament to Hamish’s Sherlock-imbued wisdom that he considered it. “I don’t think so,” he finally said honestly.

“Chloe’s shy, isn’t she?” John prompted gently. “She’s scared of loud noises. Coppers make her nervous. She had a very bad thing happen to her Hamish and she’s-“

“Fragile, I know,” Hamish nodded, smushing the word together so it came out Fra-gel.

“Daddy and I tried very hard to keep that life from her for the past month but we can’t keep it from her forever,” John spoke openly. “She needs a safer place to heal.”

He saw the moment the fight left Hamish and John sat back down in his chair, reaching his arms out to pull Hamish into his lap and cuddle him close.

“You can meet the aunt tomorrow,” John whispered soothingly, planting kisses in his son’s soft curls. “But it’s up to Chloe, okay?”

Hamish nodded and they were still sitting there, curled up in each other, when the door opened an hour later and Chloe came out looking pale and tired. Hamish jumped off John’s lap to run to her and present her with his chocolate, which she took with a weak smile.

“Expect her to be quiet tonight,” Amelia murmured to John and Sherlock as Hamish chattered to Chloe about all the different sweeties in the machine downstairs. “The session was hard but she handled it very well. Maybe just stay in and coddle her. You have my number if you need me.”

“Thank you,” John said gratefully. He glanced over at the children before whispering, “They found Chloe’s aunt. She’s coming in tomorrow.”

Amelia looked surprised and then pleased. “I’ll be there, “she confirmed. “This might be exactly what Chloe needs.”

“Come Chloe,” Sherlock beckoned and she looked up. “John will cook us dinner and then force us to watch a nonsensical movie about cats or some other furry creature. Does that sound acceptable?”

“He wants to know if you wanna eat noodles and watch Lion King,” Hamish translated and Chloe nodded, holding tight to Hamish’s hand.

“Although the separation will be hard,” Amelia noted and John agreed.

“You’re telling me,” he laughed grimly and then Greg came out, holding a bundle of papers. He walked over to Chloe and reached out a hand to shake, making sure to stay far enough away she could refuse if she felt uncomfortable. Chloe hesitated before taking it and shaking.

“Give this one some ice cream,” Greg advised, trying a smile. “She just saved a lot of lives tonight.”

“And excellent idea,’ Sherlock commended, his first compliment of Lestrade in years, before taking Chloe’s other hand and leading the solemn band outside.

 

* * *

 

 

Chloe’s aunt looked exactly like her and smiled so honestly, even Sherlock was awed by her.

She took Chloe out for pastries and told her all about her house in Florida, the school Chloe would go to, the therapy dog they would buy together, the yard she could play in, and the lake just ten minutes from her house. Sherlock busied himself with reviewing and re-reviewing her file and John and Hamish assumed the heartbreaking task of packing the meagre possessions she’d acquired into a tiny bag.

Chloe loved her. It didn’t make the separation any less tearful. Visits were promised, emails were exchanged, and Hamish and Chloe hugged for ages, never quite letting go. Amelia gave Chloe’s aunts the numbers of a few child therapists in the area before promising to be in touch and leaving herself.

“It’s such a miracle they found me,” Tara Barret beamed after Amelia had gone, watching her niece with a fondness you couldn’t sham. “I’d almost given up myself till someone emailed me a picture of Chloe playing in a park. I don’t know how they found me; I didn’t even get a name.”

“Odd,” John agreed, looking pointedly at Sherlock, but his husband revealed no answers. Some secrets were better left buried.

As Chloe and her aunt were leaving, Chloe hugging her foster uncles tighter than she’d ever hugged them before, Hamish shouted “Wait!” before bolting upstairs.

He was back a minute later with Mr. Wiggins, the stuffed bear, and he presented it to her formally.

“So you’ll always have someone to keep you safe,” he explained and Chloe hugged it tightly to her chest, eyes shining, 

And then they were gone, the house seeming empty for the first time in over a month. Bedtime was a quiet affair and Sherlock and John tucked themselves into bed not long after their son, even Sherlock starting to feel the strain of emotional exertion.

They were both awakened not even an hour later by someone clearing their throat in the doorway. Sherlock sat up clumsily to see Hamish standing there with ruffled hair, his face drawn in the faint hallway light.

“What is it, love?” John asked blearily, immediately concerned.

Hamish paused before speaking. “It’s just so lonely in my room, without her,” he confessed, voice faint. “You both have each other but I’m all by myself-“

Sherlock said nothing, only moved to make a space for the boy, and Hamish scrambled up onto the bed to fit himself between them in a makeshift cuddlepile. He buried his face in Sherlock’s chest and John wrapped his arm gently around Hamish’s waist as Sherlock did the same to John’s, the three of them falling into an overwarm, protected sleep.


	21. Hamish Vs. A Levels

The boxing gym was always loud this time of evening. Hamish bounced back on his heels, pretending to stare at his punching bag while secretly glancing at his father at the station next to his. Sherlock was utterly absorbed in his routine, boxing effortlessly with his bag, so Hamish felt safe.

“What do you want to ask me?” his Dad's voice called out without even looking over and Hamish internally berated himself for even trying to be subtle.

He tried playing dumb. “What?” he called back, aiming three punches at the bag’s “sweet spot.”

“You’re hesitating on your left leg and you’re pushing the bag instead of punching it,” Sherlock noted breezily, still not looking at him. “Your snapping punch is weak in the right elbow and you’re never weak in the elbow. And you keep looking at me. So are you going to tell me what you’re scared to ask or do I need to deduce that too?”

Hamish abandoned any pretense of trying to box and walked over so he could speak to Sherlock without having to raise his voice in the crowded gym. Sherlock was dancing back on his heels in a vest, sweat plastering his curls to his forehead, and he looked over _finally_ to smile at Hamish in the Sherlock version of encouragingly.

“Go on,” he prompted and Hamish played with the wrappings on his right hand nervously, looking down.

“So, we had to confirm what A2s we’re taking for next year,” Hamish started, and Sherlock stared back, a madly confused expression on his face. “A levels, Da. GCEs? You take like four of them and then let them ruin your life for two years?”

Sherlock seemed to light up as he remembered and then promptly looked confused again. “Yes. You took them this year,” he puzzled.

“I did,” Hamish smiled, amused by just how little attention Sherlock paid to the nonsense of his life. All his friend’s parents had been on them about A-levels since they’d been in reception. Sherlock had shown zero interest, but he remembered the exact brand of wrist tape Hamish preferred after watching the way each one chaffed his skin. “And now I take them upper sixth too.”

Sherlock swung a particularly good punch and someone a few stations over whistled. “Details, Hamish. Or we shall be here all night and your father wants us back before eleven.”

Hamish took the jab in stride. “So, I told them I wanna drop one. I really only need three and what with rugby and Trudy and sixth form play, I don’t think I’ll have time.”

To an outsider, it would look like Sherlock wasn’t listening as he swung four sets of three punches, two on each side of the bag, but Hamish knew his father well enough to notice the tilt to his head, the breathing through his nose and the angling of his body to show he was paying attention.

“Well that’s hardly a reason to have a conniption-“

“I’m dropping Chemistry.”

Sherlock froze. His already tensed body seemed to seize up further and he turned to Hamish unnaturally slowly, looking at him with unsure eyes.

“You love Chemistry,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

Hamish shook his head, embarrassed to meet his father’s eyes. “No, you love chemistry. And I love you so I can see where you’re getting confused-“

“You do experiments with me all the time!” Sherlock protested, touting his evidence like this was a trial.

“Yeah, I do, but those aren’t chemistry,” Hamish pointed out and Sherlock looked affronted. “They’re not! Dissecting a sheep’s brain- that’s biology,” Sherlock actually grimaced. “Comparing mould growths on sheep’s tongue, also bio. Synthesizing a hydrogen combustion- okay that’s chemistry. But most chemistry is not like that! It’s balancing equations and memorizing formulas and I’m pants at it.”

Hamish looked so downcast, Sherlock tugged a glove off to reach out to him. “I could tutor you,” he suggested and Hamish just raised an eyebrow. “I could hire someone to tutor you,” he corrected but Hamish shook his head.

“I don’t like it,” he repeated. “I just don’t want to spend my last year before uni stuck in a class I hate.”

Sherlock said nothing and Hamish groaned, tipping his head back. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” he complained. “Now you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Sherlock said shortly before slipping his glove back on and turning back to his bag. Hamish sighed.

“Da,” he pushed and Sherlock turned to glare at him. “Can we talk about it?”

“Dull,” Sherlock deemed.

“Da!”

“Fine, aright,” Sherlock gave up, giving Hamish his full attention. “You’re more like your father every day.”

“Thank you,” Hamish grinned cheekily like it had been a compliment and, from the way Sherlock smiled back, it might just have been.

Now it was his father’s turn to look uncomfortable, shifting slightly. “I only- forget it. I’m not doing this.”

“Don’t make me fight you,” Hamish threatened and Sherlock laughed out loud like that was amusing. Hamish bristled.

“No, it’s simply-“ Sherlock seemed unsure how to begin. “I had this desire, when you were small, for you to be a chemist when you were older. You seemed so interested in your father’s Gray’s Anatomy and you would sit and watch me experiment for hours- it calmed you down. Absurd and sentimental, I know, now can we stop?”

Hamish reached out and hugged his father. Sherlock startled before gently winding his own arms around Hamish’s back,  slipping a glove off so he could rub lightly at the back of his son’s neck. “I always wanted to be just like you when I grew up,” Hamish explained into his father’s chest. “Just, minus the chemistry.”

“Forgive me for asking a frankly stupid question, but are you sure this is what you want?” Sherlock asked, his breath cooling Hamish’s curls.

“Yes,” Hamish promised, meaning it.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer and then they both heard his mobile chime from their kit. “That’s probably your father,” Sherlock said, separating slowly, “wondering where we are.”

“I’ll go shower,” Hamish smiled, turning to walk towards the lockers, but stopped at the call of his Dad.

“Hamish, have you told your father?” Sherlock checked, mobile in his ungloved hand.

Hamish nodded. “Yep. He wasn’t upset about the chemistry,” he clarified, anticipating his father’s next question. He walked a little father before turning back, unable to resist. “He was more upset that I was keeping Drama.”

And he got to relish his Da’s face of pure shock as he padded out of the gym and into the showers.


	22. Hamish Vs. Baking

Mycroft was sitting at his dining room table with Anthea, pouring over what seemed like a mountain of paperwork, when they both heard the front door slam and a voice singing to itself,

“-drifting awayyyyy, waaaaaaaaaave after wave-“

Hamish sauntered in, still in his school uniform, and dropped his rucksack on the wood floor. “Well hello there my darling, most favoritist uncle,” he grinned cheekily, reaching across the papers to snag an apple from the fruit bowl.

“Who let him in?” Mycroft demanded, turning to Anthea, and the fifteen-year-old adopted a wounded look.

“You gave me a key!” he exclaimed pitifully, puppy-dog emerging from his eyes and Mycroft did his best to resist.

“Nonsense, why on earth would I do a thing like that?” he protested and Hamish very neatly stuck his tongue out at him before turning his attention to Mycroft’s assistant.

“Anthea, my darling,” he cooed, leaning on the table to swoon at her. “You’re looking absolutely ravishing; is that a new haircut?”

“It is, actually,” she smiled softly, touching her hair. “Nice of you to notice, Hamish.”

“I notice everything about you, apple of my eye,” Hamish promised, winking at her. “Let’s say, dinner at eight? My treat, mon ami.”

Anthea giggled as Mycroft glared at the pair of them. “Careful Hamish, I’m old enough to be your mum,” she reminded him gently and Hamish looked scandalized, but for the wrong reasons.

“I won’t let some societal norm keep us apart!” he protested. “Love goes beyond those ridiculous boundaries-“

“Don’t your parents ever notice you’re not home?” Mycroft cut him off, glaring at his nephew.

Hamish flopped himself into one of the ornate chairs and lifted his feet to rest on the edge of the table. “Nope,” he drawled, popping the “p” as his uncle glared mutinously at his feet. “They’re not home either. Pa called, they got three dead men in a locked room and all three were left handed. Da’s having a field day; they’ll be home late. So I came here!”

Mycroft rubbed gently at his eyes. “You’ll want a lesson, I presume,” he deduced and Hamish nodded emphatically. “Well, you’ll have to wait. This will take a little longer-“

“It’s alright sir,” Anthea promised, standing. “I’ll finish it up. It’s just a bunch of signature work; I can do it in the car ride home.”

“Won’t you need my signature?” Mycroft asked and Anthea gave him a look that read plainly, _Oh sir, that’s adorable_.

“You are an absolute gem, my dearest,” Hamish crowed, smiling winningly at her. “You complete me. I marvel at your unearthly beauty daily, my sweet.”

Anthea laughed good-naturedly. “We need to get you a girlfriend, Hamish,” she clucked, gathering up some papers.

Hamish nearly started glowing. “I couldn’t agree more! So your house, Tuesday night?”

“I meant someone your own age,” Anthea shouted over her shoulder as she clicked out of the house, closed thing the front door behind her. Hamish stared a bit dreamily after her before sighing lightly and turning back to his Uncle.

“She definitely likes me,” he decided and Mycroft only rolled his eyes.

“You know your Papa tried flirting with her the first time he met her too,” he noted. “Must run in the family.”

Hamish looked so completely thunderstruck that Mycroft almost regretted his words. Almost being the operative word. “Go to the kitchen, I’ll meet you there,” he promised and Hamish scampered off towards the back of the giant house as Mycroft collected the remaining papers and organized them.

By the time Mycroft made it to the kitchen, Hamish was already in his own apron with one laid out for Mycroft on the wooden table. “Are we gonna try the Baked Alaska today?” he asked giddily, bouncing back on the balls of his feet.

Mycroft chuckled, amused. “Pace yourself, Hamish,” he advised, slipping on his own apron. “After the disaster with last week’s Croquembouche, let’s not rush.”

Hamish looked down, embarrassed. “I wouldn’t call it a disaster-“

“The staff was cleaning caramel off the ceiling for three days,” Mycroft pointed out and Hamish flushed. Mycroft backpedaled, unsure how to wipe that look from his nephew’s face. “We’ll try something simpler today. Chocolate soufflé?”

“Yes!” Hamish agreed, running to the other side of the massive kitchen to fetch pots from the big wooden cabinet. “I can do that, easy!”

“Remember, it’s a very delicate operation,” he cautioned, calling up the recipe from memory. “No jumping about while it’s cooking or you’ll end up with chocolate soup. Now go get eggs and a lemon. And see if I have bittersweet chocolate.”

Twenty minutes later found them side by side at the metal countertop, Mycroft chopping the chocolate into petite squares and Hamish whisking egg whites and sugar with lemon juice on a double boiler. Mycroft hummed softly as he worked and Hamish tried to catch on, humming along with the songs he recognized as ones he’d learned for Trudy. It was companionable.

“Uncle Mycroft, when did you learn to cook?” Hamish asked, checking to make sure the bowl wasn’t touching the water. Mycroft considered the question carefully before answering. It was one of the things Hamish loved about his uncle, how he took every question Hamish asked him seriously, no matter how mundane.

“You know your grandparents,” Mycroft started and Hamish nodded gravely. “Well when your grandmother was still teaching, they weren’t home very often. We lived rather out in the middle of nowhere and your father was so much younger than me, I had to find ways to amuse myself. So I took up baking. I reasoned that if I loved consuming baked goods so much, I might enjoy making them.”

Hamish giggled appropriately and Mycroft smiled indulgently, pouring the chocolate into a separate double boiler. “I wasn’t half bad at it,” he noted and Hamish snickered as though the idea of his uncle ever being less than perfect at something was ridiculous. It was a heady feeling, being so worshipped.

“I moved on to cooking at some point, but baking always stayed a passion,” he confessed, stirring the chocolate as it melted. “Till this day though, your father won’t eat a thing I make. Afraid I’ll poison him, I expect.”

“I never got that,” Hamish piped up and Mycroft looked over at him. “Why don’t you and Da get on? I asked Pa once and he said he didn’t really know either.”

Mycroft sighed, stirring the chocolate. “Your father believes I am lazy,” he confessed, glancing over at Hamish’s pot. “Check and see if that’s lukewarm yet,” he ordered and Hamish obeyed immediately. “We have similar gifts, mine are actually rather better than his, and he feels I am misusing mine.”

“You’re not lazy,” Hamish objected, fishing out the electric mixer and plugging it in. “You run a government.”

“From a desk,” Mycroft reminded him. “Your father believes any job that does not involve legwork is slovenly,” he explained and the rest was rather drowned out as the mixer was switched on. “Keep at that until the eggs are stiff peaks,” he called out over the noise and Hamish nodded back, holding the bowl steady. Mycroft kept to his chocolate until Hamish held the bowl out for inspection and he approved.

“So why do you hate him?” Hamish asked, switching the mixer off and placing it in the sink.

“I don’t,” Mycroft objected, testing the chocolate with his pinkie and determining it hot enough. “Your father was the person I loved most in the world for many years.” He looked up to find Hamish staring at him, mouth slightly open.

Feeling exposed, Mycroft handed the chocolate over to Hamish with a spatula. The boy took it but kept staring at his uncle, shifting awkwardly before asking, “And now?”

“And now, what?” Mycroft pressed, carrying the double boiler over to the sink and busying himself with washing it rather than make eye contact.

“You said he _was_ the person you loved most in the world,” Hamish pointed out, pouring the chocolate in. “What happened?”

Mycroft struggled with his phrasing, the words sitting awkwardly on his tongue. “Well, I discovered what an experience it was to love someone who loved you back,” he said finally, looking up at Hamish and the boy looked nothing short of moved. The silence held between them for a long moment until Mycroft looked down to Hamish’s hands and started.

“Fold!” he cried out, rushing over, and Hamish stepped back from the bowl instinctively. “I told you to fold the chocolate in, not beat it!”

“I’m sorry,” Hamish mourned as Mycroft surveyed the damage. “Can we fix it?”

“If we wanted to make chocolate cake,” Mycroft snipped and Hamish seemed to deflate slightly. With a sigh, Mycroft tipped the bowl down the sink and turned to Hamish, a light smile on his face.

“You did say you have all night, yes?” he checked and Hamish’s own mouth split into a wide grin, reaching up to his eyes.

“I could probably even push it into a sleepover if you’ll wash my uniform,” he offered and Mycroft clapped him on the arm.

“Go get the eggs,” he ordered and Hamish rushed back to the immense fridge, already starting to hum Bloch’s _Schelomo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, before anyone asks, Hamish is singing "Waves" by Mr. Probz. Only because that bloody song has invaded my radio. I'm not sure if I like it or I'm sick of it. 
> 
> It always seems to be that when I write teenage Hamish, I end up incorporating the things I do in real life. Anyone ever try to make a Baked Alaska? That thing is actually impossible. Forget lighting it on fire, I struggle just adding in the meringue.


	23. Hamish Vs. Composing

When Sherlock had left the flat, Hamish had been scratching out “Hall of the Mountain King” on Trudy. He despised how Hamish’s tutor gave the boy such pedestrian pieces to practice. Worst, John seemed to think this was “normal.”

So he’d taken to doing outside business during Hamish’s allotted practice time. Sherlock would be glad of the day Hamish was experienced enough that they could fire the tutor and Hamish could instruct himself. Michele had been with Hamish for nearly two years now- that time would come soon.

When he returned home though, he nearly froze in the hallway. Soft noises filtered down the stairs, short and intermittent, but Sherlock recognized the melody all the same.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of the door. “Sherlock dear, I need-“

“Not right now, Mrs. Hudson,” he said briskly, bounding up the stairs and bursting into the living room.

Hamish sat on his special chair behind Trudy, sheet music interned on his stand, puzzling over the notes and playing them one by one. He glanced up at the sound of the door opening and smiled.

“Hey Da,” he started but Sherlock cut him off.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Hamish was utterly oblivious to his father’s mood. “I was getting bored so I looked at some of your sheet music. It’s a little hard adjusting for cello, you have to transpose nearly everything down an octave or so, but I think I'm-“

“Who gave you permission to touch my music?” Sherlock thundered and Hamish looked up, eyes widening in sudden understanding.

“I just thought-“

“You didn’t think, or we wouldn’t be having this problem now,” his father seethed and Hamish cast his eyes down, properly chastised and slightly frightened.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and Sherlock said nothing but strode forward and snatched the sheet music off the stand. He tromped over to his collection of sheet music to slide it away when Hamish’s voice, hesitant and small, called back to him.

“Who wrote it?”

Sherlock spun around, caught off guard, and Hamish repeated the question. “There’s no title or composer on the music. I was just wondering,” he mumbled off. “It’s really beautiful.”  

His father considered the question for a long moment before finally acknowledging it with a tilt of his head. “I wrote it,” he confessed and Hamish’s head shot right up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“You?” he checked and Sherlock didn’t even rebuke him for asking an obvious question. “Oh. It’s just- I’ve never heard it and you play us all your pieces. Even the ones Pa hates.”

Sherlock repressed a dry chuckle at that. “I wrote this before your father and I were together,” he explained in a low voice, looking out the window rather than look the eleven-year-old in the eye. “I never considered, in those days, that my feelings might be reciprocated. That piece is rather…painful for me to revisit.”

Hamish nodded and then looked aghast as he placed his father’s earlier anger, at coming home to the flat he shared with the loving family he’d built painstakingly for himself only to hear a reminder of just how lonely he’d once been.

“It’s sad,” Hamish said after a moment.

Sherlock bristled. “I do not treat you like an adult so you might pity-“

“Not that,” Hamish brushed off and Sherlock turned to watch him. “It’s too beautiful a piece to never be played. Depriving someone of hearing this- that’s sad.”

Sherlock considered the boy a long, silent moment, sitting precariously behind his cello, an instrument larger than him, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his long lashes blinking up trustingly, and he realized his son would one day experience decimating heartbreak.

“Get me a pencil,” he ordered and Hamish stood.

 

When John came home, his husband and son were together in the living room, Sherlock standing with his violin and Hamish by his Cello, and he felt his breath catch. He’d never seen the two play together, Hamish refused on principle to be associated with his father’s instrument, but this was pure perfection. It was like watching two sprites, pale and dark-haired, utterly lost together.

Naturally, the spell was ruined the moment he was noticed. “Papa!” Hamish cheered, running over to hug him, and John kissed the top of his son’s ever-higher head wondering absently, as he always did these days, whether today would be the last time his pre-teen son let him kiss him so easily.

“That’s a new song,” he remarked and Sherlock set the violin down to come over and receive his kiss. John never worried those kisses would one day be forbidden; they were as essential as oxygen to the pair of them.

“I played it for you once before,” his husband murmured and John dutifully cast his mind back, coming out with only a hazy memory of Sherlock by a window, refusing to eat yet again.

“But we’re changing it!” Hamish informed him excitedly. “Da is helping me transpose and we’re composing a bit.”

“It’s beautiful,” John said proudly, pointedly ignoring the look from Sherlock that read _He’s composing music, we can fire the bloody tutor now_. “Sad though.”

“All wonderful things begin tragically,” Sherlock mused softly, face leaning in gently towards John’s, like a plant reaching for the sun.

But Hamish just shook his head, not one for vague philosophies. “Just wait till you hear the end,” he promised, running back to his stand to pencil in another note.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. There are a lot of you reading this thing. I'm in a little bit of shock right now. I feel like we should get to now each other better, talk a little bit. How are you? How's your day going? You're looking marvelous, just so you know ;)


	24. Hamish Vs. Abandonment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so cathartic to write, you have no idea. I know these are supposed to be fluffy and this is! There is definite fluff in there- you just need to look very, very hard. 
> 
> Sorry I'm not sorry

The cab ride back was the hardest part. Leaving the hospital had been brutal but the cab had just reminded Sherlock of how alone he was. Cab rides after cases were stolen moments between him and John. Now John lay asleep in a hospital bed, a neat line of stitches across his stomach, and Sherlock sat in a cab alone.

He wanted to stay with him; in the old days he would have fallen asleep in the chair by his bed. But they had Hamish to think of- he needed to go home for Hamish.

The three-year-old ran to him the moment he walked through the door. Sherlock had been surprised by just how early in the evening it was, not even past six, and Hamish hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

“Daddy!” he cried energetically, hugging his knees, and then looking past his father curiously. “Where’s Papa, Daddy?”

“Papa’s coming home later, Hamish,” he explained faintly, feeling slightly weak himself. “He’s in the hospital now. He’ll be home later.”

“Papa come home now,” Hamish demanded and Sherlock had forgotten how bloody difficult it was to rationalize with a toddler.

Ignoring the statement, Sherlock trekked upstairs into the kitchen. “Let’s feed you supper,” he announced, opening the fridge to pull out a container of leftover lo-mien. He dumped it in a ceramic bowl and shoved it in the microwave before turning back to his son.

Hamish stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him with wide eyes. “Papa come home now,” he repeated, undeterred, and Sherlock needed him to stop saying Papa right now because all he could think of was John in the alley and a knife and blood all over his discarded scarf.

“Papa’s coming home later,” he insisted. The microwave beeped and he pulled the dish out, setting it down on the table. “Come eat.”

“I want eat with Papa,” Hamish decided, refusing to be moved.

“Well you can’t,” Sherlock informed him. “I’d also like to eat with Papa but he isn’t here now so you’ll have to make due with me.”

He bent and picked Hamish up, intending to place him in his highchair, when the toddler promptly kicked him in the chest.

“I want eat with Papa!” Hamish shouted and god lord, he was _crying_ now, large wet sobs that sent fat teardrops rolling down his cheek. “I want eat with Papa, I want eat with Papa, I want eat with Papa!”

“Well you can’t bloody eat with Papa!” Sherlock shouted, sinking to the kitchen floor as the whole day just caught up with him. He fisted his hands in his hair, pulling it painfully to ward off tears of his own. “Papa’s not here, Papa’s not coming home today.”

“Check when Papa come home!” Hamish begged, toddling over to him before his sobbing body gave out and he crumpled to the floor too, staring at his father with watery eyes.

Sherlock actively took a deep breath. _For heaven’s sake, you’re the adult here_ he reminded himself _pull it together. For Hamish._ “Let’s eat dinner,” he suggested, forcing his tone to stay light. “We can have a cookie when we’re done and I’ll get your train. You can hold it while we-“

“No!” Hamish screamed, mashing his fists against the floor.

Sherlock tried again. God, John made this part look so easy with his bribes and distractions and impersonations. “You can walk around while you eat-“

“No!”

“Do you want to eat in a real chair?

“No!”

“What do you want Hamish?” Sherlock pleaded, exhausted against the linoleum. “God, Hamish, tell me what you want.” There was blood underneath his nails; John’s blood was still underneath his nails from where he’d held his scarf to the wound, applying pressure till the ambulance got there.

“No no no no no!” Hamish wailed, his brown eyes spilling over. The collar of his tee was slowly turning one shade darker. “Check when Papa come home.”

“Hamish-” Sherlock tried but the boy was standing up and nearly running to the open door of their bedroom. Weak, Sherlock followed him to find him standing by their bed, too short to climb on, clutching desperately to the crumpled duvet they’d left in their rush to get to the crime scene this morning.

“Papa come home,” Hamish whispered breathlessly. “Papa come home? Check when Papa come home, Daddy.”

The three-year-old was a wet, crying mess and Sherlock felt no better off. He wanted to collapse against the bedroom door and cry himself, let his head hang between his legs and howl about how scared he’d been, holding the body of the man he’d loved most in the world- terrified the ambulance would not come in time. How John’s eyes had blinked up at him, blue and clear, and told him to _“Take care of Hamish, Sherlock. He worries when we don’t come home_ ,” but he couldn’t.

He was a parent. And this was what parents did. They swallowed their emotions and held their children, put their child’s every need before their own.

Sherlock bent and picked Hamish up from his own curled-in position. His reaction was immediate- Hamish began raining kicks and fists on Sherlock’s chest and arms, wailed and screaming bloody murder. But Sherlock was stronger than him and he carried him off to the bathroom and held him tight between his legs, stripping him of his overalls and shirt.

“Leave it on, leave it on!” Hamish demanded as Sherlock struggled against the small but well-placed blows. “Papa come home, Papa come home!”

“Yes,” Sherlock said loudly. “Papa’s coming home,” and it was like a marionette having its strings cut. Hamish still sobbed, great heaving things, but he no longer kicked back against his father but relaxed nearly boneless in his arms.

“Papa’s coming home,” he repeated, even though he abhorred repetition, and he let Hamish sit on the toilet cover while he took down the smaller bathtub and filled it, taking out the shampoo. “Papa’s coming home.”

“Papa come home?” Hamish checked in between shuddering breaths and Sherlock nodded, checking the temperature.

“Papa’s coming home,” he promised, setting Hamish down in the tub. “Papa’s coming home,” he swore, washing the three-year-old’s soft, milky arms with a wet washcloth. “Papa’s coming home,” he vowed, bundling the wet child up in a towel, drying his hair in uneven spikes.

He dressed Hamish slowly, running large hands down his sides and through his hair. Hamish’s tears slowed to a mere trickle and then a standstill, silent as Sherlock repeated his mantra.

“Papa’s coming home,” he whispered, and Hamish reached his arms up so Sherlock could hold him, clutching him tightly to his chest, wrapping him in a blanket. “I promise, Papa’s coming home.”

Hamish turned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Already Sherlock could feel his collar soaking through, wet from Hamish’s residual tears. He blinked up at his father, eyes rimmed red, and nodded.

“Yes,” he declared and Sherlock never believed in signs from the universe or acts of fate but in this he could believe; in the pronouncement of his son.

“Yes,” Sherlock echoed, rubbing his hand soothingly down Hamish’s back through the blanket, rocking back from foot to foot in Hamish’s nursery, the room that had once held John so very separate from him. His fingertips felt over-sensitized from the rub of the fabric against his skin but he rubbed anyway. He’d amputate an arm, in that very moment, to keep Hamish from crying again.

“Papa’s coming home,” he whispered, holding his son in the middle of his room, bathed in the fading light from the window. “Papa’s coming home.”

And in the sounds of Hamish’s slowing breathing mixed with his own faint avowals, Sherlock let himself hope.


	25. Hamish Vs. The Case of the Century

Hamish woke up on the morning of his eight birthday to the sound of a loud argument downstairs.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, coming down the stairs in his small blue dressing gown and firetruck jimjams.

Sherlock and John immediately moved in front of something on the floor, their faces schooled into nonchalance. “Hamish baby, go back upstairs,” John cautioned gently. “You don’t want to see this.”

“See what?” Hamish asked, trying to peer around his father’s legs.

“There’s been a murder,” Sherlock explained and Hamish’s eyes widened as he pushed past John’s knees to see the figure of the ground.

“Oh my knickknacks,” he breathed out as he stared at the body. Mr. Humperdink, his fourth-favourite teddy-bear, was lying on the living room floor with a knife embedded deep in his soft, fluffy tummy. There were faint red smears on his fur by the knife and his glass eyes stared back eerily.

“We need to call-“ John tried but Hamish silenced him with a raised hand.

“I will solve this murder,” he declared, hands on his tiny hips.

John and Sherlock exchanged indecipherable looks and then nodded. “You should have a partner,” Sherlock suggested with hinting eyes. “They are indispensably helpful.”

Hamish considered the advice for a moment, despite his unsurity as to the meaning of “indispensable”. “Okay,” he decided. “Papa will be my assistant.”

“Why not me?” Sherlock cried, shocked, as John raised a fist triumphantly in the air behind him, mouthing _Yes._

“Because you’re too bossy,” Hamish informed him honestly. He then turned back to John, eyes expectant. “Okay partner. Where do we start?”

John knelt down so they could see eye-to-eye. “Well your father usually looks at the body,” he offered and Hamish nodded at the sage advice. He walked over to the fuzzy body and touched the knife hesitantly. It came up in his hands and he was surprised to find it was a plastic knife.

“Detective Hamish,” John called and his son spun around to face him. “I think I found something,” he said, pointing at a smudge on the floor. Hamish rushed over to see what could only be a bloody fingerprint.

“Don’t touch it!” Hamish shrieked and John lifted his hands compliantly. “We need to dust for it. Partner, do you have-“

Sherlock interrupted by clearing his throat loudly and holding out a fingerprinting kit in his outstretched hands. Hamish snatched it up without a word. John gave him a stern look meant to remind him of his manners classes and Hamish acquiesced.

“Thank you, common Londoner,” he acknowledged and Sherlock looked so affronted that John had to stand and smother his face in kisses to calm him down. Hamish ignored this ridiculous display of sentiment and knelt by the fingerprint.

He’d watched his Daddy do this so many times before, it came as nearly second nature. In under a minute he had a messy but very black fingerprint slide. John, after being brushed off by a furiously blushing Sherlock, took it carefully as Hamish held it out to him.

“What should we do with it?” Hamish whispered, ashamed at his lack of knowledge in that department.

“We usually take it to Uncle Greg and he runs it through the system,” John explained and this seemed to please Hamish greatly.

“Well then we’ll have to go to Uncle Greg!” he declared, heading towards the door.

“Um, detective Hamish?” John called back hesitantly and Hamish paused. “Do you think you might want to get dressed first?”

Hamish refused to let himself blush. “Yes, that might be a smart idea,” he acknowledged. “Partner will you please…help me find trousers?” he requested, attempting to remain as dignified as possible.

He knew he’d picked the right assistant when John merely nodded and followed him up the stairs to his bedroom. After trousers, a jumper and trainers were procured, the Watson boys headed back down to the door.

Sherlock was standing by the flat door with a duffle bag containing the body of the late Mr. Humperdink and a small box. “Your Papa thought you might need this now that it’s getting colder,” his father explained and Hamish took the box in excited hands to unveil a small, blue scarf.

“I’ll help you tie it,” John offered and Hamish held still while his father knotted it around his neck.

“To the Yard?” Hamish checked and John agreed, respectfully not holding Hamish’s hand as they walked down the stairs and Sherlock hailed a cab.

At the Yard, Hamish strolled into Greg’s office without so much as a by-your-leave. John and Sherlock had prepped the inspector before, naturally, and he was waiting behind his desk pretending to be busy. He glanced up as Hamish barged in and lent him a smile.

“Hullo Hamish; nice scarf,” he greeted but Hamish merely waved him away.

“Uncle Greg, there has been a murder,” he summed up and Greg’s eyes widened comically. “Lucky for you, I am already on the case. I found a fingerprint; can you tell me whose is it?”

John dutifully handed over the completely illegible and unusable fingerprint and Greg took it with the reverence of someone being handed actual evidence. “I can run it though the system,” Greg promised. “You don’t have to wait here for it. I can call you with an answer.”

“Perhaps you should take the body to Molly for a proper autopsy,” Sherlock spoke up from the doorway and Hamish shot him such a black look that he visibly shrunk back, clutching the duffle bag helplessly.

“Partner, I have a good idea,” Hamish said, turning to his Papa. “Maybe we should bring the body to Aunt Molly for an auto-apo- so she can cut it open.”

“That is a fabulous idea,” John praised as Hamish preened and Sherlock looked murderous. “To St. Bart’s then?”

This cab ride was even shorter than the first and Molly was dutifully waiting in the lab as instructed. She looked up from her paper work as the power trio burst in through the doors like heroes in an action movie and walked over to them.

“Detective Hamish, what can I do for you?” she asked, perhaps laying it on a bit thick, but Hamish just soaked it up.

“There was a murder this morning,” he informed her. “My team brought the body. Can you look at it?”

Molly smiled. “I see you have your own forensics team,” she said, taking the bag from Sherlock who considered the statement and then nearly flatlined.

“Wait, does that make me Anderson?” he demanded. “Am I bloody _Anderson_ in this-“

“Language, Sherlock,” John cautioned and Sherlock shut his mouth, glaring savagely at the party.

Hamish didn’t seem to be paying attention though as he followed Molly to an autopsy table. She gently nudged over a stepstool and Hamish climbed up it without comment, watching her unload the body from the bag and lay it out.

“Hand me my gloves, Hamish,” she instructed and Hamish did, taking them gently from her tool kit. She snapped them on with a loud sound that seemed to please the tiny detective and set about carefully slicing the late Mr. Humperdink open, baring his fluffy insides to the world.

“Weird,” she tutted and Hamish turned on her.

“Why?” he demanded. “What’s weird?”

“Well, he didn’t die from stabbing,” she noted. “Look here,” she said, pointing to a patch of purple fluff deep inside the bear. “That’s a sign of poisoning. I’d have to take a look at it to figure out what poison it was but your bear here was stabbed after he was already dead.”

“His name was Mr. Humperdink,” Hamish informed her casually as John’s phone began to ring. He picked it up and listened intently for a few seconds before holding it out.

“It’s the inspector,” he stage-whispered and Hamish took the phone, his face schooled serious as he held it to his ear.

“Hamish? I have the results,” Greg said loudly over the phone.

“Yes?”

“You’re not going to like it,” his uncle warned him.

“A bear is dead, Uncle,” Hamish responded succinctly. “No jokes. No games.”

Greg took a minute to answer. “The fingerprint belongs to your Uncle. Mycroft Holmes.”

Hamish blinked. “No,” he breathed and John came over.

“What?” his faithful partner asked and Hamish met his eyes.

“Tell Anderson to call a cab,” he instructed and Sherlock nearly screamed. “We need to go to Uncle Mycroft’s.”

Uncle Mycroft’s office seemed more menacing than usual as the cab pulled up in front of it. Anthea was at the front desk and at the sight of them she seemed to freeze.

“What do you-“ she tried but Hamish breezed past her.

“Not now, Mrs. Anthea,” he apologized. “Time is of the ess-eve- time is super important right now.”

His fathers followed him into Mycroft’s office where his uncle was sat behind his large, ornate desk. He put on a curious expression as his nephew waltzed in and raised one, singular eyebrow.

“Hamish. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he prompted and Hamish crossed his arms.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” he accused. “You’re a murderer!”

Mycroft put up an affronted expression. “I am no such thing,” he protested and Hamish shook a finger at him like an owner might chide their dog.

“You killed Mr. Humperdink!” he informed his uncle. “I found your fingerprint.”

“Mr. Humperdink?” Mycroft checked. “You mean the former bear spy, Mr. Humperdink?”

This was all very new information to Hamish. “Spy?” he puzzled, out of his depths. At that moment, Anthea bustled in with a tea tray.

“Your tea, sir,” she said, setting the business on Mycroft’s desk. Hamish watched her slip a purple bottle into her suit pocket and then blinked rapidly.

“Oh,” he whispered, caught off guard and then seemed to refocus. “Uncle Mycroft!” he shouted as his uncle raised the cup to his lips. “Don’t drink that!”

“What on Earth-“

“Papa, stop Mrs. Anthea!” he demanded and John sprung forth into action, following the PA out of the office and dragging her back in a few moments later with her hands held behind her back.

Mycroft eyed his assistant warily. “Hamish, whatever is this about?” he questioned.

“She was going to poison you,” Hamish imputed. “Just like she poisoned Mr. Humperdink. The poison is in her pocket, Pa- I mean, my partner.”

John dutifully fished out the purple bottle and handed it to his tiny partner. “We found some of this inside poor Mr. Humperdink,”Hamish clarified for his Uncle’s benefit. “But why would Mrs. Anthea kill a bear?”

“Because he was a spy!” the put-upon PA exclaimed in a wail and all parties turned to listen to her. “He and I were spies together. He was going to tell Mycroft all about what I’d done. So I poisoned him and tried to make it look like Mycroft did it. The last step was to kill Mycroft to make sure the truth couldn’t get out. But you ruined everything!”

Hamish beamed.

“Congratulations Hamish, you solved the case!” John cheered and Hamish preened for a moment before sobering and turning his gaze on his Papa.

“You guys can stop playing pretend now,” he said, releasing them, and John looked crushed.

“Who said it was pretend?” he asked sadly but Hamish just smiled winningly at him.

“Daddy kept winking at people,” he explained as though it was obvious and then the whole room burst out laughing, short giggles interspersed with real chuckles.

Sherlock was the first one to speak. “It would appear that you really are a detective,” he acknowledged and Hamish only shook his head at his father.

“Oh course I am!” he declared. “I’m the child consulting detective- the only one in the world,” he whispered, as though it was an incredible secret, and all parties present regarded it as such.

John couldn’t stand it any longer and released Anthea, reaching down to swoop his son up into a tight hug. “Happy Birthday, Hamish,” he cooed and Hamish allowed himself to be coddled, easing into the hug.

“Thank you for the very nice birthday present,” he answered politely, smoothing down his new scarf, and Sherlock bent over to kiss his head. Hamish reached up to grab his father’s head and manhandled Sherlock so he could whisper in his ear.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you help. I just knew you would find the answer right away and I wanted to find the answer myself,” he explained and Sherlock seemed markedly soothed by the apology, kissing Hamish an unprecedented second time.

Mycroft stood. “Shall we go eat cake?” he suggested and for once Sherlock did not make fun of him but agreed with the rest of his family. And so the child consulting detective ate chocolate cake in the dining room for lunch on his eight birthday. And if he didn’t take his new scarf off, well nobody said anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> Just giving you all fair warning- I most probably will not be putting up a new chapter for the next two weeks. This week I have a work thing in Toulouse and next week I have a family thing in Atlanta (I'm headed back to the states! So happy :] )  
> I might try to type up a new chapter on the plane depending on how much I like the person I'm sitting next to (or don't like them, to be perfectly honest) but I make no promises.  
> Either way, I'll see you all soon! Kisses- Shay <3


	26. Hamish Vs. Kissy Stickers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaand we're back, people. Look alive, break's over. Did you miss me? ;)

Sherlock came bounding up the stairs of 221B to the sight of John and Hamish huddled around an explosion of colored paper.

“Hello,” he greeted cautiously, picking his way around tubes of what appeared to be glitter and hanging up his coat. “What are we working on?”

“We’re making Valentine’s Day cards!” Hamish explained cheerfully, brandishing a pair of child’s scissors. “Papa’s helping me.”

John looked up helplessly at him, his face covered in various pink stickers. “Good of you to join us,” he said, eyes pleading, and Sherlock folded himself down to the floor immediately to join them.

“How many are we making?” he inquired, unsure what he was getting himself into.

“Twenty-two!” Hamish informed him. “One for the whole class- even the boys.” He considered this commitment a second and then recanted. “Well, with no kissy stickers on the boys’ cards. Cause I don’t wanna kiss any of the boys.”

“And you want to kiss all of the girls?” Sherlock checked and Hamish looked appalled.

“Maybe no kissy stickers,” he told John and the frazzled doctor made a note of it. Hamish then blushed and looked down, playing nervously with the hem of his shirt.

“Well, maybe we can put kissy stickers on Marcie McDonald’s card,” he suggested slyly and his parents shared a look.

“Marcie- as in the girlfriend Marcie?” Sherlock asked John quickly and his husband nodded. “Well then that might be appropriate,” he agreed with Hamish.

The six-year-old sat back on his little bum, legs splayed in front of him. “When Papa was one year older than me he gave Samantha B, who was the prettiest girl in all of year two, a Valentine ’s Day card and she gave him a big kiss on the cheek outside in the recess yard," he announced, proudly retelling the story.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow as he turned to look at his husband. “Is that so?” he asked and John flushed.

“Did you ever give any girls Valentine’s Day cards?” Hamish asked and then reconsidered. “Or boys are okay too I bet.”

Sherlock paused to think about how a Valentine’s Day card might have gone over at Eton. “No Hamish, I didn’t,” he said. “Not until Papa.”

“When you first knew that you liked Papa, on that Valentine’s Day did you give him a card?” Hamish pressed.

John and Sherlock shared a look as both tried to decide if a naked Sherlock tied up in red satin ribbon could be construed as a card. “No,” John decided for them. “But he did give me a kiss, so it was okay.”

Hamish pulled a face. “Is Papa gonna be your Valentine this year, Daddy?” he checked.

“I seem to have no other plans,” Sherlock informed him, keeping his tone light.

“And Daddy’s gonna be your Valentine, Papa?”

“One of them,” John smiled indulgently. “You’re gonna be my other one.”

Hamish looked horrified. “But then Daddy’s gonna feel sad!” he protested. “Like one time when Mrs. Teacher was choosing who was gonna be the best cleaner of the day and norma- norm- on every other day she only picks one person who cleaned the bestest out of everyone but then that day she chose two and both people were sad cause they didn’t get to really be special so you should only pick Daddy so he feels special and I’ll be alright cause a lot of people in my class are gonna give me cards, I bet.”

Both fathers were rendered momentarily speechless and then John took a deep breath, partially on behalf of his son who did not seem to need one. “A person can have more than one Valentine because a person can love more than one person, baby,” he explained gently. “And I love you and Daddy the most out of anyone in the world so you’re both going to be my Valentines.”

“There are a lot of different kinds of love, Hamish,” Sherlock offered and both heads turned to him as they always did when he took his turn at imparting life lessons. “I love Papa in a different way than I love you. But both are important and both should be recognized.”

John reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s hand; it wasn’t often he got to hear his husband say “I love you.” But Hamish still looked troubled.

“Different how?” he asked.

Sherlock took to a demonstration. “I love you like this,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss Hamish’s forehead, right against the soft, dark curls. “And I love Papa like this,” he contrasted, tugging John forward an inch to kiss him chastely on the lips, a smile curving at the end of it.

When they pulled back, Hamish was nodding soundly. “I get it,” he announced. “You love me cause I’m your baby. And you love Papa cause together you get to make babies.”

John burst out laughing as Sherlock stared, unsure just where he’d gone wrong. “Close enough, love,” John promised Sherlock, rubbing his thigh. “Let him have this.”

Hamish cleared his throat, unimpressed. ‘When you are done acting silly, we have cards to make,” he chastised and John brushed a stray tear from his eye.

“Yes baby,” he smiled and together they set to cutting out twenty-two paper hearts.


	27. Hamish Vs. The Long and Winding Road

“Are we there yet?”

John felt a twinge of longing for his days back in the army, undergoing abduction training. Who would have thought his professional drill sergeants would have nothing on a six-year-old.

“No, we are not Hamish,” he replied tersely. “We were not there the last time you asked, or the time before, or even the time before. We will tell you when we’re there but for now try and look out the window or nap, okay?”

There were a few minutes of blissful silence in which John tried to re-open his novel and Sherlock checked the fuel gage in the driver’s seat. Then-

“Are we there yet?”

“Hamish-“ John nearly exploded and then Sherlock slid neatly in.

“I have a job for you, Hamish,” he directed from the front, never taking his hands off the wheel. The first time they’d gotten into a car together, John had been nervous about letting Sherlock drive. He figured the man would only drive like he lived, distracted or maniacal. But Sherlock behind the wheel was a steady beast, patient and in control.

“It’s a very special job, do you think you can do it?” he prompted and Hamish nodded excitedly. “Good,” Sherlock smiled, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror as Hamish shifted in his car seat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he explained. ‘Every time you see a house, you need to tell me about who lives in the house and what they’re like.”

“But how will I know just by looking at a house?” Hamish asked, confused.

“That’s the hard part,” Sherlock soothed. “You have to figure it out. Start with that white house.”

They were so far out in the country the houses were far and few in between. So the white house flashing by right then was a godsend. Hamish took a long look as they passed and then tried to rattle off facts like his father.

“Well it’s big, which means the people that live there are probably rich,” he decided and Sherlock nodded.

“Very good, what else?”

Hamish tried to recall. “There was a car in the parkway. Which means someone is home!”

John was surprised by that bit of logic. “Nice job, Hamish,” he praised.

“Um, there was a swing set in the yard, so maybe there are kids,” he tried and then shook his head. “I don’t remember anything else. It went by so fast,” he confessed but Sherlock only kept driving.

“It’s alright, that was very good,” he praised. “Here comes another house, try again.”

By the sixth house, Hamish’s voice was wavering and slowing in between sentences. “Um so that house was blue so maybe they really like that color…yawn…and um there was a porch so maybe the mummy likes to make lemonade and let the daddy drink on the porch while they watch the- yawn- sunset.”

“Unsourced but entertaining,” Sherlock offered softly from the front seat. It was dark outside the car, a faint twilight settling over the countryside, but inside the car was lit hazily and soft, the rumble of the engine rocking them all to sleep. “Anything else?”

There was silence from the backseat and John turned around to look back. “He’s out cold,” he congratulated Sherlock, marveling slightly. “Nice work.”

“Careful balance of detailed and unnecessary information," Sherlock explained. “just interesting enough to keep him occupied but useless enough to give him room to drift off.”

“Brilliant,” John muttered and then sat back in the silent car, watching the road unfold before them. Suddenly, he started up and turned on Sherlock.

“You don’t do that with me when we’re working, do you?” he checked and Sherlock did not take his eyes off the road.

“Don’t be ridiculous John,” he brushed off. “Now have you finished counting how many petrol stations there are between us and my parents?”

John bent back over his map. “Yeah, it looks like there are- hey!”


	28. Hamish Vs. Photo Albums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I was living in America when I learned basic maths so if you guys don't use mnemonic devices like this in the UK, forgive me. You should though, they're brilliant

“Roll the dough into little flat snakes; there’s a good lad,” Violet Holmes clucked as Hamish stood by her side at the kitchen counter.

“Like this, Grammy?” he checked and she smiled indulgently.

“Perfect,” she agreed, taking one strip to lie flat on top of the pie. “Now let’s see what you remember. I want to find out the circumference of this pie. That’s just the outside. What do I do?”

Hamish’s hair held a light dusting of flour from the day of baking and his tee-shirt was caked in blueberry and apple stains. “Um…cherry pie delicious!” he cried out proudly. “So we multiply the diameter by pie and that’s the cherry- I mean circumference.”

“Good job,” Violet praised, rubbing the eight-year-old’s back. “Now let’s say I don’t want to know the circumference but I want to know the area. That’s the whole pie.”

Hamish puzzled it out. “Um, apple pies are too- so that’s pie multiplied by the radius squared!”

“That’s right,” Violet beamed, bending to put the two pies in the oven. “So that’s cherry pie delicious-“

“And apple pies are too!” Hamish completed proudly as Sherlock strode in through the back door.

“What on Earth are you teaching my child?” he questioned, shaking off the lingering smell of cigarettes and hugging Hamish gently, ruffling his hair.

“It’s a mnemonic device,” Violet explained, straightening to cup her son’s cheek and bend him down for a forehead kiss. “I taught it to you when you were small.”

“Must have deleted it,” he grumbled but the look in his eye suggested he’d kept it after all.

“Go get your brother,” she called after him. “Dinner’s in an hour and he needs to wash up.”

Sherlock grumbled something about getting Mycroft herself before he suddenly spun around, wide eyed. “Where’s John?” he asked, bewildered. “I thought he was with you.”

Violet smiled. “He drove into town with Daddy to get a few things. He said goodbye to you and everything.”

 Sherlock looked put out. “I had a problem I wanted to run by him. I’ll just call.”

Violet watched her son stride out of the small kitchen, a fond smile on her face. Hamish tugged her apron politely and waited until she bent to face him.

“Um Grammy, why are you smiling like Nanny Hudson does whenever two of her favourite actors on her soaps kiss all ichy like?” he inquired and Violet took his hand.

“Let’s get you washed up and then I’ll tell you a story,” she promised and Hamish followed behind her like a lone duckling waddling after its mother. She helped him climb the steps to the bathroom sink and watched him wash the flour out from under his fingers. The shirt was beyond saving.

When he was suitably clean, Violet led her grandson to the living room and sat him down on the sofa while she reached for a leather album. “Did you know that when your father was your age, he and your Uncle lived all alone up here?”

Hamish shook his head. “All alone?” he pressed.

“Yes,” Violet repeated, settling down next to her grandson. “I homeschooled both of them until they were old enough to go to Eton. So for a very long time it was just me, grandpa and your father. We had a very merry time of it. Sherlock used to run all sorts of experiments in the backyard; it was darling.”

She opened the album to reveal a picture of a Sherlock around Hamish’s age. The two could have been twins with their black curls and intense gaze. Only the eyes gave them away, Sherlock’s a mercurial color to Hamish’s simple brown. The farie-child was crouched in the garden, knees covered in dirt, and gazing up at the camera with the beginnings of a smirk.

“I worried about your father a lot, you know?” Violet admitted, turning to page to show off a picture of a slightly older Sherlock perched up in a tree. “Not the way I worry about you. You’re so vocal and assertive but your father- perhaps I was wrong to isolate him for so long. For a long time, Grandpa and I worried he might never find love.”

“But he has Papa,” Hamish pointed out, giggling at a candid of a five-year-old Sherlock in the bath, wet hair plastered up into a Mohawk.

Violet kissed her grandson’s head. “And that’s why I’m happy,” she said finally. “Do you wanna see a really funny one?” she teased and turned to a snapshot of Sherlock standing by the back door, drenched in water, with a leg that looked suspiciously like Mycroft’s running out of frame.

“Oh, I remember that,” a voice spoke up from behind them and Hamish turned to squeal and jump from the couch into his Uncle’s arms. Mycroft hefted him up, as easy with him as though he’d always held the boy.

“You’re getting heavy, Hamish. I won’t be able to do this much longer,” he grunted and Sherlock strode back in with a smirk.

“Too much exercise, is it big brother?” he taunted but Mycroft’s eyes only glinted back.

“Mummy was just showing him baby pictures,” he said casually. “Yours, specifically.”

Sherlock’s face turned a horrified white and he ran to the couch, staring down at the offending pictures of him and then turning to his mother. “Mummy, why?”

Violet giggled and met her grandson’s eye, both of them sharing a mischievous look. “I wanted to remind your son that you’re human,” she confessed and Sherlock glared.

“He’s eight; too young to ruin the illusion,” he insisted but Hamish only beamed at him from his safe perch in his uncle’s arms.

“You’re still perfect, Daddy,” he promised and Violet looked at her boys and wondered when this had become her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to write about the Holmes parents for ages but we see so very little of them in the show, I wasn't even sure what to do with them. Hope this was okay!


	29. Hamish Vs. Uni

Hamish slid into the empty seat on the other side of the café table, smiling genially at the man across from him. ”Sup, Unc?” he greeted with a wry smirk. His tee-shirt was wrinkled and dirty, his jeans were well worn, and the black curls he was so fond of were an uncouthed mess. It would seem revisions were well under way.

“I’m glad you could make time to see me,” Mycroft smiled back, crossing his hands before him on the table. “I know you must be busy with tests.”

“I always have time for my favourite uncle,” Hamish promised, eyes earnest. He'd stopped coming over as often after school once he'd started secondary but the teen still slept over nights his parents were otherwise occupied. At this point they'd stopped calling the second floor bedroom a guest room and three school uniforms had taken up residence in the closet.

“I’m your only uncle,” Mycroft reminded him and Hamish chuckled, gesturing to a waiter.

“Hey, Greg’s basically a real uncle,” he protested and then grinned up at the waitress that came over. “I’ll just have a coke, thanks. Unc?”

“I’ll have a Greek salad,” Mycroft ordered. “And he will have a deli sandwich- yes,” he insisted, meeting Hamish’s protesting look. “Let me feed you; it eases me.”

Hamish gave in and the waitress smirked at them. “If that’s all,” she started and, at Hamish’s nod, retreated.

Mycroft turned back to his nephew. "And how's, what's her name, Leah?" he prompted.

Hamish laughed at him, "Her name is Laurel, Uncle, and you know that; don't pretend you don't spy on me."

"Spy is a strong word," Mycroft protested, but he conceded. "Very well, how is our darling Laurel?"

"Good," Hamish smiled shyly, a pleased blush flitting across his cheeks. "We wanna try and go to France or something for a week after term. Pa'll be all for it but Da might be a bit harder to convince."

Mycroft smirked at the thought of Hamish asking his brother to let him go off alone for a week. "My brother has always been very protective of the things that are his," he offered and Hamish nodded, non-pulsed at being called a 'thing.'

"I think I'll get Pa to make him say yes," Hamish strategized. "If my A-levels are good it could be a reward, you know?"

“Speaking of grades, congratulations on Cambridge," Mycroft smiled knowingly. "Accepted as long as you get, was it all A*?”

“Two A* and one A,” Hamish clarified, face turning dark. “They’re not as concerned with Drama.”

“Well, you’ll get them,” Mycroft encouraged. “You’re doing wonderfully in French. And History is all dates anyway. I can help you revise if you’d like-“

“I don’t think I want to go to Cambridge,” Hamish spoke up and Mycroft stared at him.

“Yes you do,” he repeated, unsure of himself. “You always have. I helped you fill out the application; we took the tour together. You loved it there; I saw it myself.” They had taken a tour together back in the fall, wandering between the old buildings and asking questions just to stump the tour guide. There had been a heady moment when someone had mistaken Mycroft for his father and the older man still wasn't positive why the assumption had made him feel so smug.

Hamish seemed to bristle, turning defensive. “It’s really big,” he offered in protest. “And crazy competitive. I applied to Queen Mary,” he confessed and Mycroft stared at him. “They’ve got a nice drama studio. And they just want two As and a B. I’d be okay there.”

Mycroft took a moment to look, really look, at the boy in front of him. Where had he been at age seventeen? Confused and following down a path set by his parents most likely. “Hamish, what are you doing?” he asked gently and the seventeen-year-old seemed to collapse.

“I just don’t think-“

“Don’t lie to me,” Mycroft cautioned. “My job is to spot lies. I know you love Cambridge. What’s really going on?”

There was a beat of silence before Hamish mumbled, “He went to Cambridge.” Neither of them bothered clarifying who ‘he’ was.

“Hamish-“

“I’ve just spent so long living in his shadow, you know?” Hamish went on, gathering steam. “I’m not even my own person. I’m Sherlock Holmes’s son. That’s all I am. If I go, they’re all gonna think I got in cause of my Dad. Or worse, there’s probably still professors who remember him and are gonna expect me to be a Holmes. Brilliant and mental and perfect at everything. I’m tired of it.

“I’m not like him,” he protested weakly. “I’m not as smart as him or as fast as him. I’m a Watson. At Queen Mary’s, that’s all they’ll expect of me.”

Mycroft paused, gathering his thoughts. There was a way to go about this and, as he so often did with his nephew, Mycroft felt out of his depth. It was a novel feeling. “Do you know Hamish, that your grandmother was once quite the celebrity?”

Hamish shook his head. “Grammy?” he asked, skeptical.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft assured. “Right after her book came out. She was teaching all over the world and everyone and their mothers expected Sherlock and I to end up as maths professors. And neither of us ever did a thing with mathematics.

“But not because of her, no. That would have been cowardly. It was because we hated the damn subject,” he joked and Hamish laughed, easing up. Mycroft looked his nephew in the eye and forced him to focus.

“You are going to end up trying so hard not to be him that you’re going to forget to be you,” he cautioned and Hamish let that soak in. “Now where do you want to go?”

“Cambridge,” Hamish confessed softly.

“Then go,” Mycroft guided. “Provided you get your grades, of course.”

Hamish shook his head, grinning like a madman. “You’re bloody brilliant, you know. Best Uncle.”

“I do try,” Mycroft said modestly, accepting their food as it was set down.

“And besides,” Hamish started, taking a large bite of his sandwich, as Mycroft had known he would, “who says no to Cambridge?”

“I did,” Mycroft said primly as Hamish choked. “I went to Oxford like my mother. That’s the whole reason your father even went to Cambridge. Now eat your sandwich.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, my darlings. There will not be a chapter next Friday. I might be able to put one out later in the week though. Love you all <3


	30. Hamish Vs. Swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, darlings. Things are a little crazy over at Shay Inc. No spoilers, but I may have some news for you guys sooner rather than later.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was a harken back to my lifeguarding days. Any other lifeguards in the house?

John came back from the community pool wet and dejected for the fourth time that month. They, well mostly he, had been trying to teach Hamish to swim but the four-year-old was not buying it.

“I don’t wanna go in!” the toddler had screamed from the side of the pool just that afternoon.

John had stood inside by the wall, feeling ridiculous in swimming trunks and a vest. “It’s safe, Hamish,” he’d promised. “Look, Papa’s doing it.”

“The water is gonna eat me!” Hamish had insisted.

“It’s just like the bathtub,” John had tried to assure him. “The pool is just like one big, fun bathtub. Don’t you wanna swim in the giant bathtub?”

Hamish had shaken his head, unconvinced. “Bathtub water comes from the trapeze,” he’d insisted, and it’d taken John a minute to realize he’d meant _taps_. “Where does this water come from?”

“From a pipe in the wall-“ John had started but Hamish had cut him off with a wail.

“It comes from the water monster!” he’d shouted. “I know it! Don’t lie to me!”

Eventually, to spare the ears of the other parents and children, John had given in and taken the small boy home where he promptly rushed into his father’s arms.

“I don’t wanna go swimming,” he sobbed into Sherlock’s trousers and the genius sighed before scooping him up, cradling him to his chest. There was a wet spot blooming on his purple silk but Sherlock was rarely ever bothered by body fluids on his clothes, no matter who they came from.

“Swimming is a very useful skill, Hamish,” he tried to explain. “You need to know it for your life. Just last week, Papa got thrown off the side of a boat by two drug smugglers. What would have happened if he couldn’t swim?”

Hamish sniffled pitifully, looking up to meet his father’s eye. “Why were drugs trying to snuggle Papa?” he inquired innocently. “Did they want a cuddle pile?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to correct the toddler but John shook his head vehemently and he changed courses. “Not important,” he brushed off instead. “The point is that swimming is something you should know how to do.”

“I can’t,” Hamish insisted, verging on falling back into tears. “The water monster will eat me.”

Here Sherlock clucked his tongue, bouncing Hamish a little to send him into giggles. “What is this nonsense about water monsters?” he pressed. “That would imply there are monsters in all water. Are there monsters in the bathtub?”

“No!” Hamish struggled to explain. “But I know there aren’t cause I can watch the water come out of the trapeze-“

“Taps,” John corrected gently and four pairs of eyes swung around to stare daggers at him. Caught, the doctor held his hands up in surrender and Hamish went on.

“Papa said the water for the pool comes from pipes that are hidden. Who watches to make sure there aren’t any water monsters?” Hamish demanded and Sherlock pursed his lips, considering it.

“This is a very serious question,” he validated and the toddler preened. “I will construct an answer for you that will assuage your fears. But until then, you do not have to go swimming.”

“Yay!” Hamish cheered as his father set him down, oblivious to the questioning looks his Papa was giving his Daddy. “Can I go play now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said as John barked out a “No!” The two men glared at each other, locked in silent conversation, until John finally nodded and Hamish scampered upstairs.

Once they were alone, John turned on his husband. “What was that?” he challenged. “You were supposed to assure him there were no ‘water monsters,’ not validate his fears!”

“Patience,” Sherlock counseled. “I have a plan. One that will get rid of his fear entirely.”

“Care to fill me in?” John asked but Sherlock was already slipping on his shoes and reaching for his wallet.

“Later John, I need to prepare,” he excused as he swanned out the door. John glared at the empty doorway for a minute, upset but entirely unsurprised at the usual turn of events, before starting on lunch.

 

Which was why the doctor was surprised to come home two days later to find Hamish and Sherlock hunched over the family’s high-powered microscope. There were diagrams and papers everywhere and Hamish looked up as his father came in.

“Papa, I’m not scared anymore!” he announced, running over to hug his father.

“Scared?” John asked, not quite following, as he picked up a sheet. It was a diagram of a chlorine piping system with explanations. He looked around and realized all the diagrams were of various parts of a pool, showing off its pluming, its water system, and even the log list of repairs from the specific pool they liked to frequent.

“Yeah, Daddy showded me how the pool works,” Hamish clarified proudly. “We even looked at a water molilipop.”

“Molecule,” Sherlock amended from his seat by the microscope and Hamish nodded.

“Yeah, that,” he told John. “Now I know there can’t be any monsters at all! I even looked!”

John looked over to meet his husband’s eye. Sherlock was watching proudly, a slight grin hiding in the corner of his mouth, and John had never felt more appreciative of his partner.

“There’s still,” he checked his watch, “two hours left at the pool till they close. You want to go?”

Hamish looked ready to explode from excitement. “Yeah!” he cheered. “Let’s get dressed!”

As the little Watson nearly zoomed upstairs to get his trunks, John stepped around the mess to cup Sherlock’s chin and kiss him gently.

“You are such a wonderful father,” he praised and was rewarded with a slight flush on those sharp cheekbones. “You want to come with us?”

“I think I’d like that,” Sherlock coughed, turning shy for the first time in his life, and John beamed at him.


	31. Hamish Vs. Meet the Parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late, my butterflies <3

It was Hamish’s cry that had John and Sherlock’s heads spinning towards the doorway.

“Please tell me that is not human intestine,” the sixteen-year-old begged and Sherlock nodded proudly.

“Wonderful observation Hamish; it is in fact pig’s intestine,” he congratulated, his hands full of the stuff. Across the room his husband was helping spool out the long, pink length. “Your father and I are testing to see if one could be strangled with it- a man’s life depends on it!”

“Sherlock,” John chided and his husband recanted.

“Okay, perhaps not yet. But we may one day get a case-“

But Hamish was standing there slowly going red. “You forgot. You promised you wouldn’t forget!” he cried helplessly and John turned to him immediately.

“Love-“                

“Laurel is coming for dinner today,” he near exploded and then watched twin confusion grace his parent’s faces. “Laurel, as in my girlfriend? As in the girl I told you two weeks ago was coming for dinner and you promised not to freak her out?”

Sherlock looked at the organs trailing across the kitchen and then back to his son. “Do you think this will freak her out?” he inquired.

“It will definitely freak her out,” Hamish promised and John was already looking apologetic.

“Don’t worry love, we can fix this,” he eased, handing the intestines back to Sherlock and coming over to his son. “We’ll clean. We can freshen up. I’ll start on dinner. When is she coming?”

Hamish closed his eyes. “Half-hour.”

John paused a minute. “We can make it work,” he decided, less sure, and then they set themselves in motion.

Sherlock and Hamish cleaned the kitchen like madmen, stuffing organs and body parts in the refrigerator and scrubbing bloodstains off the table. The microscope and bacteria projects were hid in a cupboard and the maggots were put, against John’s vehement disagreement, back in the sugar jar.

The sitting room was cleared of clutter. Piles of papers were taken off chairs and hid in the bedroom, boxes were shoved under the couch and suddenly a walking path appeared for the first time in two years. Hamish came over to Sherlock as he was finishing peeling pictures from three murder sites off the wall.

“Hey Dad,” he tried carefully and Sherlock cocked his head to show he was listening. “I love you. Like so much. And I get you and everything you do and you’re honestly the best father. But when Laurel is here could you maybe act a little…you know a bit…”

“I completely understand,” Sherlock promised and Hamish practically beamed at him. “Your father once bought me a book on the subject. It was fairly ridiculous with animals substituting humans in some complex analogy but it cleared a lot of things up.”

Hamish breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad-“

“To quote the pig, I’m just going to be myself,” he finished and Hamish looked ready to burst into tears.

“See, I don’t think you actually understood-“ he tried but at that moment the doorbell rang and it was all a little too late.

Hamish ran downstairs to open the door before Mrs. Hudson could get to her and there stood Laurel, radiant in a baby-pink sundress with her hair pinned back behind her. She smiled nervously at him.

“Hey,” she whispered and Hamish leaned in to kiss her quickly.

“Hey,” he smiled back. “You look so beautiful.”

She flushed, pushing back a loose strand of hair. “I brought some wine-“ she offered and then John’s voice rang down.

“Hamish love, bring Laurel upstairs,” his father called and he grabbed her hand, leading her up the stairs. Somehow, John had made the whole house smell like baked bread and spices and Sherlock had taken up position by the window with his violin, looking over casually as they walked in.

John came out of the kitchen with a dishrag slung over his shoulder and Hamish nearly gave the whole act away by bursting out into giggles. “Laurel, so good to see you again,” his Pa greeted and Laurel shook the offered hand. “Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you so much for having me,” she smiled, handing over the wine, and Sherlock set down his violin to join them.

“Shall we sit?” he offered and then suddenly everything went perfectly.

Conversation was natural and only a tiny bit awkward. Sherlock and John politely inquired about Laurel’s A-levels and her family’s summer plans and only brought embarrassing Hamish baby stories twice. Laurel was laughing and smiling and not looking horrified but for some reason, it all felt just a step off to Hamish. His parents were doing exactly what he’d asked them to do but it all tasted…fake.

But then they moved smoothly to the kitchen for dinner and Hamish was just able to push down his uneasy feelings and try to enjoy when suddenly-

“Is the chicken okay, Laurel?” John checked politely and Laurel nodded back. Somehow she’d been seated nearest to the fridge and so no one was properly prepared to intercede when she stood and said,

“I just want a little water; fridge right?” and then proceeded to pull back and open the fridge.

“No-“ John called while simultaneously Sherlock and Hamish stood and yelled “Wait!” But it was too late and Laurel was staring into the fridge that was unfortunately staring back in the form of five eyeballs in a jar, along with the assorted body parts.

Laurel let out a little giggle and then turned back to the collected terrified faces. “These are pretty cool. They're costumes, no?”

“Of course-” John moved to lie, relief filling his face, but Hamish had had enough.

“No,” he said honestly, finally figuring out what felt wrong. He was acting like he was ashamed of his parents when really, nothing could be further from the truth. “They’re my Da’s. He’s a scientist; he does all kinds of amazing experiments,” he bragged and he felt rather than saw Sherlock puff up proudly behind him.

There were six long seconds of silence before Laurel blinked and grinned. “That’s so amazing. Can you tell me about it, Mr. Holmes?”

With the water forgotten, dinner became much more interesting after that. John and Sherlock regaled Laurel with tales of their cases and most interesting experiments and a few exasperating client anecdotes. It was a surprise to everyone when it suddenly became 11:30 and they’d been stalling over dessert for more than an hour.

“It was such a pleasure meeting you both,” Laurel said earnestly as she stood by the doorway. “Thank you so much for dinner.” Hamish stood next to her, he was walking her home, but he beamed at his parents from over her shoulders and mouthed a ‘thank you.’

“The pleasure was ours,” John promised. “Hamish, no faffing around. You take her home, you come right back.”

“Yes sir,” Hamish agreed and, with his hand in Laurel’s, they set off down the street. John and Sherlock watched them for a minute before closing the door and heading upstairs to clean up. John was washing the dishes when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and smiled softly before finishing up.

> Sorry if I made you guys feel like you’re not enough. Best parents ever  
>   - H


	32. Hamish Vs. Baddies 2.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write an alternative to chapter 7 for ages, even since I took up teen Hamish. Hope y'all don't mind reoccurring themes.

Hamish was surprised to hear noises from upstairs when he came home from school. John had texted him earlier that day that he and Sherlock were in Brixton and wouldn’t be home till late. Mycroft was in Burma for the week and so the fifteen-year-old had expected to come home to an empty house.

_It must be Mrs. Hudson,_ Hamish thought as he climbed the stairs. Who else could it be? “Mrs. Hudson?” he called up as he approached the landing and pushed the door open.

The two thugs in black jackets were definitely not Mrs. Hudson. “Just the boy we were looking for,” thug number one smirked, turning from where he’d been playing with Sherlock’s carefully stacked papers. The second thug was sitting in John’s armchair like it belonged to him.

Hamish’s first thought was that his father was not going to be happy about someone rifling through his things. The second thought was that he was in very big trouble.

The teenager carefully slid his rucksack off and let it land by the door. He needed to keep space between himself and the goons until he could assess the situation. He had to think this through.

 “Hello there,” he answered politely. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes there is, Hamish,” the talkative goon who Hamish had affectionately begun to refer to in his mind as Bossman said menacingly as he reached into his pocket and oh dear lord, he had a gun. There was a gun in play fuck fuck _fuck._ “Hands in the air.”

Hamish raised his hands slowly, making a show of it. “Okay, okay, take it easy,” he urged in a calm tone. “This is something to do with my parents, no? I’m just the kid; let’s not be too hasty.”

“You really are Sherlock’s son,” Bossman confirmed, coming closer, and armchair-goon stood up to follow suit. He hadn’t pulled any sort of weapon but Hamish couldn’t assume, not enough _data_ and this was important here. “Never met anybody who just couldn’t figure out when to shut up.”

“Shutting up,” Hamish promised and then Bossman was next to him and the gun was very close to his ribs. Fuck, he was going to have to take a gamble.

“Let’s go, hands behind your back,” Bossman ordered. “Chris, go get me something to gag him with, fucking Holmeses.”

Hamish moved to lower his hands and then pulled back and punched Bossman directly in the gut. He silently blessed the boxing Sherlock had drilled into him as all the air left Bossman’s lungs and Hamish took the opportunity to grab the gun and point it at both his would-be attackers, stepping back.

“Motherfu-“ Bossman started to wheeze but Hamish held the gun straight and unshaking with the kind of accuracy he’d envied in his fathers. John had never agreed to teach him how to shoot but he knew how to wield a gun and boxing did a lot to build strong arms.

“Do shut up,” Hamish advised and miraculously, Bossman did. Armchair-goon failed to pull out a second gun and begin a shootout so for once in Hamish’s life, a gamble had paid off. “And big mistake calling me a Holmes; I’m a Watson. Now let me tell you how this is going to go.”

Armchair-goon made a move and Hamish trained the gun on him with the best dead-eye stare he could muster. “Do you really think I don’t know how to use this?” he lied and the two goons seemed to buy it. “My Pa is Captain John Watson, of her majesty’s fucking army. And my Da- well, you two know all about just how stone-cold he is. Do you really think they haven’t been teaching me how to use a gun since infancy? So shut up and sit on the fucking couch.”

There was a beat of silence where the two goons met eyes and then, in a shocking turn of events, they sat on the couch. “Put your hands on your head where I can see them,” Hamish added and they obeyed. The teen almost gave himself away with a laugh. Really, this was way too easy.

Holding the gun with one hand, Hamish fished in his pocket for his mobile and dialed his honourary uncle. It rang a few times before Lestrade finally picked up.

“Hey Uncle Greg,” Hamish called, aware the goons were watching his every move. As a precaution, he cocked the gun and suppressed a smile as both men drew back. “No, I’m good. School’s great yeah, thanks for asking. Just got home. No, I know my parents are out with Dimmock, they texted.

“No, everything’s good. Just wanted to let you know I got two would-be kidnappers sitting on my couch if you wouldn’t mind swinging over and picking them up. No, no, I’m fine,” Hamish promised as his Uncle started panicking on the other line. “Yeah I know it’s like the second time this month. But if you could hurry up- perfect. See you soon.”

With a grin, Hamish hung up the phone and slipped it back in his trouser pockets. He was remarkably glad he hadn’t ended up getting kidnapped; this was his only clean school uniform at the moment and there was no way his parents were doing laundry before Thursday. He needed this shirt dirt and blood free.

There were an awkward few minutes as the goons sat complicity on the couch and Hamish tried to make stilted conversation. Armchair-goon tried to rush him at minute three but Hamish neatly fired at him. He’d been aiming for his leg but he went ridiculously wide. Recoil was unexpected but Hamish held himself through it and armchair-goon jumped appropriately.

“Warning shot,” Hamish explained coldly. Sherlock had always scoffed at the practicality of his acting classes but look how useful they were now. He was rubbing this in his father’s face later. “So you know I’ll do it. Now sit the fuck down.”

Armchair listened and the police stormed in two minutes after that, Lestrade at the head of the pack followed by two arms-carrying officers. He searched immediately for his nephew and then couldn’t hold back an incredulous headshake at the sight of the teen holding two assailants up at gunpoint.

“You’re a wonder, kid,” Lestrade marveled as the goons were handcuffed and led away.

“Why they all seem to think the Watson kid would be easy to kidnap is beyond me,” Hamish laughed, submitting to a hair ruffle. “I’m starving. Can we get food?”

Lestrade hesitated and Hamish read everything in that pause. “You called my parents,” he intoned, shocked. “You called my bloody parents and told them I was almost kidnapped!”

“Of course I did!” Lestrade admonished. “They deserved to know. And watch your language, young man.”

“Sorry Unc,” Hamish said automatically before he remembered he was mad and then moved to pouting. “How long do I got?”

“Half hour?” Lestrade estimated and they sat down to wait.

As it was, his parents burst in after only twenty. Hamish was still draped in the orange shock blanket a medic had unloaded on him after checking him over and he watched John’s eyes immediately narrow to it as he rushed over.

“Hamish,” John gasped breathlessly, immediately checking him over for injuries.

“No, no, I’m fine, promise,” Hamish assured as his father ignored him and set to looking for bruises and cuts. “They just sort of flung this at me and I figured I’d keep it cause we need new blankets after Da burned that last bunch in the fleece experiment. I’m okay, they never touched me.”

“That’s it,” his Pa murmured as he pulled his only son in close, holding him tightly. Hamish was a good five inches taller than his Pa but he rested his head on John’s shoulder anyway. “We’re retiring. We’re moving to Sussex and raising bees. No more of this.”

“No bloody way-sorry,” Hamish pulled back. “I’d rather get kidnapped every so often than have to watch Da go mental.”

“I would not go mental,” Sherlock objected, coming closer at a more sedate pace. He took in Hamish with a quick glance as if to assure himself his son was safe and then went back to sulking. Typical.

“You would without your cases; don’t deny it,” Hamish insisted. “Poor Pa’ll have to start shooting in the cabbage patch to keep his trigger-happy side satisfied. And I’ve got school. Besides, I’m alright. I protected myself.”

“And what if there had been two guns?” Sherlock pressed and Hamish didn’t bother asking how his father knew that tidbit of information.

He walked over to the couch to demonstrate. “I was near enough to the couch that after I sucker-punched Bossman, I could duck for cover if Armchair pulled one out.”

“Armchair?” John stumbled over but Sherlock was nodding thoughtfully.

“We’ll have to increase boxing lessons to twice a week,” he mused. “And your father will teach you shooting-“

“It's just the law, sitting right here,” Lestrade piped up from his chair and Sherlock shot him a withering look.

“At a legal shooting range with legal guns,” Sherlock finished and the inspector seemed to quiet down. But John was shaking his head and glaring solely at his husband.

“We are done playing around with our son’s life,” he said firmly. “Nothing is worth this.”

“We are,” Hamish answered and his parents turned to him. “Our family is worth this. And we’re not the same if you both can’t do what you love. And I’m not leaving London. This is my home.”

“This is not about-“

“And is no one going to congratulate me on disarming and holding up two paid assailants?” Hamish finally caved and it was Sherlock who answered that.

“Not terrible,” he acknowledged and in an instant, the tension snapped as everyone laughed, his Pa a higher-pitched giggle, before Sherlock deduced, “Hamish wants dinner.”

There was dinner, Chinese, and after they ate, Lestrade went home. John spent a bit of time touching Hamish’s arm and shoulders and kissed him on the forehead before he went up to bed, which he hadn’t done in a while.

But Hamish heard him and his Da arguing long into the night in the living room. The words “endangerment,” and “abuse,” filtered up a few times until finally Hamish gave into the temptation to open his bedroom door and listen carefully as his Pa said,

“What is more important Sherlock, Hamish or the work?”

“Hamish,” his Da answered immediately before adding, “But that is not the issue. A little bit of training and he’ll be the safest boy in England. I’ll have Mycroft up surveillance,” and Hamish winced at how much that must hurt his father.

“Do you have any idea how much it must be messing with his head, all these people trying to hurt him?” John ground out and Hamish missed a bit of the last part, only hearing,”-negligible, Sherlock. Abusive even.”

That was when Hamish got out of bed and came downstairs in his pyjamas, not even hiding the fact that he’d been listening in. “Can I have a say?” he asked and as John spluttered about late bedtimes, Sherlock nodded.

Hamish took a deep breath. “I don’t feel unsafe,” he confessed. “Yeah, it’s a little unnerving, all these goons, but I’ve got a madman and an adrenaline junkie for fathers. I was raised to enjoy this bit.”

“I just feel like we’re robbing you of a normal childhood,” John confessed and one of the things Hamish loved so much about his parents was how they treated him exactly and entirely like an intelligent adult.

“You are,” he shrugged. “But normal’s boring.”

“You’re not going to win this,” Sherlock informed his husband gently. “And you don’t want to.”

“Teach me how to shoot,” Hamish offered. “We can drive up to the countryside tomorrow and we can work with the Sig.”

“I hate when you two conspire against me,” John said without any venom and Hamish knew they had won. There was a bit of awkward silence before his Pa shuffled off to make everyone tea and there was a bit of cuddling on the couch before Hamish was frog-marched back up to bed and kissed by both his parents; which was such a novelty it froze him for a beat.

But as Hamish lay in bed, drifting off, he reflected and decided it was worth it. The kidnapping bit was worth it, if only to see how very much his parents loved him.


	33. Hamish Vs. Chloe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back. Back again. *kisses*

Chloe was standing by the taxi drivers when Hamish came out, waiting for him with a little white sign that spelled his name out in glittery letters. The nineteen-year-old grinned widely the whole walk to her and then dropped his luggage handle so they could hug.

It was a long hug, tight and intimate, before he pulled back so they could look at each other.

“Hey you,” Chloe smiled and he drank in the sight of her, thin and tan in white shorts and a blue tank top, her blonde hair almost sun-bleached white and held up in a clip.

“Hey yourself,” he smiled back, self-conscious in his plane-ride trakkies and tee. “You’ve grown.”

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Six foot- what?” she teased and suddenly it wasn’t awkward between them at all. “Welcome to Florida.”

“It’s hot,” Hamish noted as they walked out of the airport and towards the parking lot. “And sunny.”

“Your poor English skin is gonna burn,” the blonde cackled as she led him towards her car. “You ready?”

“What, now?” Hamish asked incredulously as walked towards the left side of the car. “I thought I was gonna get a chance to settle in and shower first.”

Chloe spared him an excited smile. “Nope. We’ve only got day passes- we’re gonna use ‘em. Now do you plan on driving us or should we switch sides?”

Hamish looked through the car window and startled at the sight of a steering wheel. “Forgot you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road,” he chuckled, running around to the other side.

“Actually,” Chloe started, climbing in and starting the engine, “most of the world drives-“

“Yeah, yeah,” Hamish blushed, waving her off. “Let’s go.”

“To Universal,” Chloe beamed back as they drove out of the lot. “Isn’t it funny? You had to leave England just to come to the world of Harry Potter.”

“We’re very ashamed,” he promised. “Now drive, you maniac.”

Hamish had taken trains out of kings cross station plenty of times. He’d taken photographs with the joke trolley stuck in the wall and he’d even stopped by the movie-set museum once with friends. But nothing had quite prepared him for walking through the manufactured hole-in-the-wall and into Diagon Alley.

“Wow,” he whispered, watching with wide-eyes as tourists streamed in and out of the shops. “I feel like I’ve stepped into the books.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Chloe smiled, watching his face. “Now let’s go. We gotta get you a wand.”

They ran between Olivanders and Madame Malkins, buying wands and house scarves. There were pygmy puffs to pet at Wizarding Wheezes and butterbeer to drink at The Hopping Pot. It was like they were children again, running around London hand-in-hand, and it felt like taking a step back in time.

“So how have you been?” Hamish asked as they stood in line for the Escape from Gringotts, two hours in to a three hour wait.

“Same as I say I am in my letters,” Chloe laughed, nudging his foot with her own. “How’s Laurel?”

“She’s good,” Hamish said, moving up as the line shifted. “We’re good. It’s a little hard with her in London and me in Cambridge but we’re managing. I see her when I come home on weekends and we skype a lot.”

“I’m still surprised the two of you stayed together,” Chloe confessed, echoing what she’d told him through their letters. “Long distance relationships are always a mess.”

“We managed okay,” Hamish pointed out and Chloe smacked his arm.

“That’s cause we never had sex,” she giggled and then pulled a face. “As if.”

“You’re such an American,” Hamish laughed, pushing her right back. “Even your accent’s nearly gone.”

Chloe turned serious a minute, blue eyes meeting his own. “I’ve tried to forget as much of England as I could, really,” she confessed. “Rachel says it’s not exactly healthy to wrap up my trauma in a whole country but I can’t really help it.”

Hamish took her hand at the mention of her therapist’s name. They rarely ever talked about Chloe’s childhood in their letters and phone conversations, and if they did it was only to remark on how much better she was doing. It was obvious it would never really go away, he could still see that pain in the way she flinched ever minutely when the Gringotts dragon blew out fire. But she was better, and healthy.

“Da and Pa send you their love,” Hamish told her with a gentler smile. “They put that graduation picture your aunt sent us up on the fridge and tell everyone it’s their niece.”

“You seriously have the best parents, dude,” Chloe laughed and then brightened up as the line moved. “Quick, I think they’re letting people in.”

Forty minutes later found them coming out of the “bank” with shaky knees and mile-wide smiles. Soon there was a train to board and Hogwarts to visit. They dared and double-dogged dared each other to ride the Dragon Challenge and Hamish yelled so loud he was surprised he had any voice left when they got off.

“That was insane,” Chloe choked as they worked on the “feast” at the Hog’s Head. “I can’t believe you made me do that.”

“I always was good at making you do stupid stuff,” Hamish grinned wickedly, starting his corn. “You remember that time we went to Uncle Mycroft’s house and I dared you to slide down the bannister?”

“God, that thing was four stories,” she reminisced, smirking at him. “And I did it. Got friction burn all up the insides of my thighs.”

“Pa nearly smacked me,” Hamish laughed and then left it there. They both didn’t mention that Hamish’s parents had rather let them get away with anything back then, as long as it meant Chloe was happy. “And then two years ago, when you took me on that gator ride through the everglades?”

“When I dared you to try and touch the alligator, I didn’t actually think you’d do it!” Chloe defended herself. “Meat-head.”

“Chicken,” he accused and she leveled her eyes at him, blue and piercing.

“You wanna do the Dragon Challenge again?” she dared and Hamish held his hands up in surrender.

“God no,” he insisted and Chloe chucked her napkin at him. He threw it right back and then they nearly started a food fight, scrabbling with each other until they were crying with laughter and being asked to leave the restaurant.

Hamish followed her back on the train and then Chloe took him for ice cream, the two of them holding hands as they walked around outside.

“I’m glad I’m here with you,” Hamish told her softly as they passed by two little children dressed in robes.

“Me too,” Chloe echoed back, squeezing his hand. “College has been hard, not as hard as you got it up in fancy Cambridge-“

“Oh shut it,” Hamish laughed, nudging her with his shoulder and she pushed him right back.

“But it’s good, to have a break with my ‘cousin,’” she said, her voice suddenly somber. “A guy I can actually trust.”

They were right outside The Leaky Caldron and the lamplight was doing odd things to Chloe’s face, highlighting her cheekbones and leaving faint smudges of darkness below her neck. “Chloe,” Hamish started but he found he had absolutely nothing to say. He really only wanted to look at her.

“Chloe-“ he tried again and then she leaned up and kissed him. It was a short kiss, nothing more than a brush of lips against each other before they both leaned back, staring at each other with unreadable expressions.

And then fireworks went off behind them and they both let out honest, incredulous laughs. “No,” Chloe giggled, shaking her head, as bright colored explosions lit up the night sky. “That did not just happen.”

“It did,” Hamish gasped out. The rest of the park goers were fixed on the sky, watching the end-of-the-day fireworks show, but the two teenagers could only see each other.

“Did it do anything for you?” Chloe asked tentatively and Hamish paused before shaking his head honestly. Chloe’s whole face relaxed in relief and she knocked heads with him.

“Thank god,” she breathed, squeezing their interlocked hands. “Cause that did jack-shit for me.”

Hamish wrapped her up in a hug, holding her tightly. “We were bound to do that some time,” he noted and Chloe nodded into his shoulder.

“This stays between us,” she ordered, looking back so they were eye-to-eye. “I don’t want that girlfriend of yours putting out a hit on me.”

“Laurel wouldn’t,” Hamish promised her. “And there’s no way I can keep this from my Dad. And once he knows-“

“Everyone’s gonna know we kissed, aren’t they?” she scowled, not really mad, and Hamish kissed her forehead.

“Yep,” he said honestly and then winced. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“I kissed you first,” Chloe assured him, their hands swinging between them as the last of the fireworks died out and they followed the crowd out of the park. “Still corn-friends?”

“Still corn-friends,” Hamish vowed, grinning at in the inside joke. “So what now? We drive back to your aunt’s?”

“Yeah; it’s a long ride,” Chloe told him. “Plenty of time for you to call that girlfriend of yours and tell her your childhood best friend came on to you in a theme park.”

“I’ll tell her when I get back to London,” he brushed off, only half-joking. “For the rest of these two weeks, I am yours and yours alone.”

“Just the way I like you,” Chloe winked and then tugged at his hand. “In that case, Tara says we don’t have to be back by any specific time. Come dance with me.”

“Yes,” Hamish responded just as he’d responded to nearly everything she’d ever asked from him, and followed her blindly as she ran with him to the dance pit by the water, spinning her around in the light from the moon.


	34. Hamish Vs. The Truth

Sherlock and John sat close together on the couch, watching Hamish with twin deductive faces the eighteen-year-old wasn’t even sure they were making deliberately. He tried to sit up straight in his father’s borrowed armchair and smile but he was pretty sure he only managed a grimace.

“Dad, Pa, thank you so much for making time for this,” he appreciated and John smiled back effortlessly, easy love radiating off of him.

“Of course; what’s going on?” he asked and Hamish cleared his throat. He was prepared this. There was no reason to be nervous. _Come on now; just like we practiced in the mirror_.

“Fathers, I love you,” Hamish tried starting and naturally, that was when it all fell apart.

“Oh my god, you’ve gotten someone pregnant,” John blinked, horrified.

“You took drugs,” Sherlock guessed, not to be left out.

“You took drugs and then got someone pregnant,” John tried and Hamish could have strangled them both.

“I haven’t taken any drugs and no one is pregnant!” he yelled.

“Well that’s statistically inaccurate,” Sherlock spoke up. “At least a hundred million woman are pregnant right now, many of which are in labor this very minute-“

“Please shut up,” Hamish begged and mercifully, they both complied. “Fathers, I love you,” Hamish said, starting over. “You have both been the most wonderful parents any child could ask for. I have never wanted anything more than you two; I need that to be clear. This has nothing to do with your parenting; god can only imagine what kind of person I’d be if I hadn’t grown up in the perfectly insane house.

“But, I’m eighteen now and I’m going to Uni,” Hamish attempted, ashamed at how his voice shook. He’d faced down bullies and kidnappers cold-turkey but _this_ \- “I’d like to meet my birthmom.”

John and Sherlock were silent for so long, Hamish was scared he’d really upset them. And then John’s face broke.

“Oh, Hamish,” he nearly whispered and he sounded close to actual tears. Hamish saw Sherlock subtly take his husband’s hand and John held it before continuing. “We never meant to keep you from her. When you were little it was different; we didn’t want to confuse you on just who your parents were. But we never meant to make you think she was something you had to beg for-“

He paused and stood, taking Sherlock with him. “Her name is Annemarie I have her number and address for you whenever you want them.”

Hamish figured this was as good a time as any for a hug, so he stepped in for one and let go a little as John wrapped him up in his arms. Sherlock followed suit a beat later, wrapping his longer arms around the hugging Watsons. And for a moment, Hamish let himself relish this standing version of a cuddle-pile, something he hadn’t indulged in for years.  It felt just as his childhood remembered it- warm and protected and loved.

 

But that was how Hamish found himself on the doorstep of a flat in Bath two weeks later. He’d sat on his bed, staring at the phone number John had given him for hours until he'd gave up and decided he was better off just visiting unannounced.

He rang the doorbell around suppertime, greatest chance someone would be home, but was still a little surprised when a red-headed girl opened the door. She was much younger than he was, maybe twelve at most, and behind her he could hear the sounds of a household eating dinner-cutlery clanging and people laughing.

“Yes?” she asked sullenly, leaning on the doorpost, and it took Hamish a minute to remember how to speak.

“Um, is Annemarie home?” he inquired and the girl studied him before holding out a finger.

“One sec,” she promised and then yelled back into the house, “Mum! Door!”

She backed into the house before Hamish could process the fact that this girl was his sister- or at least his half sister- and then suddenly there was a grown woman standing where she’d been. She was younger than he’d expected but her shoulder-length blonde hair was starting to gray at the temples and there were faint lines around her blue eyes. She took one look at Hamish before her hand flew to her mouth.

That was not at all the reaction Hamish had planned in his head so he decided to just stick to the script he’d prepared. “Hello ma’am, my name is-“

“Of course I know what your name is,” the woman, Annemarie, choked out, her eyes oddly wet. “Oh my lord, Hamish.”

He hadn’t counted on her recognizing him and the teen stood frozen on the doorstep for a minute before Annemarie seemed to come back to herself and directed,

“Come in, please. Let’s go talk in the study.” He followed her into the house, peering around curiously as he did. The floors were a soft, plush carpet and the walls were lined in pictures. Three children kept cropping up; the redhead he’d met before- at various ages in ballet clothes and on the swings, a smaller boy with equally red hair who seemed to grow alongside her and a chubby baby girl with her mother’s blonde hair who appeared to be relatively new. Annemarie was in some of the pictures too along with a tall man with his children’s red hair, both smiling and laughing.

“That’s Daniel, my husband,” Annemarie spoke up as she caught Hamish staring at a picture of the two adults and their two oldest that must have been taken several years ago at Disney World. “And that’s Beth and Alex. Haley, she’s our youngest, was only born about two years ago.”

“You have a beautiful family,” Hamish said politely and just then Alex, now about nine, ran out into the hall.

“Mum, Dad wants to know when you’re coming back,” he asked before noticing Hamish, his blue eyes widening.

“Tell Dad I’ll be a minute,” Annemarie said calmly, smiling at Hamish for a beat. “Say Hamish is here and I took him to talk in the study.”

Alex’s face seemed to screw up as he attempted to connect puzzle pieces. “Is he the Hamish-“

“I’ll tell you later,” Annemarie promised. “Now go.”

Alex obeyed with a quick ogle at Hamish before he ran back down the hall towards the sound of the chatter. Annemarie motioned to Hamish with her head and he kept following her around the corner and into a small study with bookcase-lined walls, a pair of sofas and a computer desk in the corner. Annemarie closed the door and then gestured for Hamish to sit on one of the couches. Once he was settled, she sat down across from him.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she confessed softly and Hamish let out a sympathetic laugh.

“Me neither,” he breathed and Annemarie shook her head in amazement.

“My god, how big you’ve gotten,” she clucked in disbelief. “You must be going into Uni next year.”

“Cambridge,” he smiled and Annemarie let out a low whistle, revealing yet another little sliver about her character.

“Well you certainly get your brains from your fathers,” she chuckled and Hamish laughed along. “Just turned eighteen last month, yeah?”

“I did,” Hamish nodded, a bit caught off guard. “You-“

“Remember when you were born?” she teased and Hamish flushed. “Not something you really forget, giving birth. Your fathers used to send me your school picture every year. But then we both got so busy and they forgot to the last few years. You look just like your Dad now.”

“How do you know what I call them?” Hamish asked, surprised.

“I was there when they picked those names!” Annemarie giggled and Hamish felt himself drawn in to her good humour. “It was a big fight. Your Pa wanted to be Dad and for Sherlock to be Father. But he refused; said that no son of his was ever going to call him Father like a title. So I suggested Papa and Sherlock decided John would have it.  He claimed it was a ‘cuddly’ name and John was the ‘cuddliest’ of the pair.”

“That sounds like them,” Hamish agreed and Annemarie began fishing through her jeans pockets.

“You were a blonde baby,” she told him, pulling out her wallet. “See here.” Hamish came over to look and there, behind pictures of all three of her children, was a baby picture he recognized from the album his parents kept in their room.

“I know that picture,” he realized. “But the one we have, it’s my Pa holding me by the window.”

“They took two,” she explained, thumbing gently over the picture of a much younger her, lying in a hospital bed still in a gown with a sleeping Hamish bundled up in her arms. “I was so scared. It was my first pregnancy and you were nearly a cesarean. But you were so perfect, lying there. I cried so much, mostly because I knew you weren’t mine to keep.”

Hamish felt his throat close up at those words and went to sit back down before asking the only question he could ask at that point, the one he always wondered about. “Why’d you do it?” he asked. “How’d you give me up?”

Annemarie closed her wallet and put it away, sighing deeply. “It wasn’t about giving you up, you see. I was only the carrier; you were always your fathers’ baby. If you’re asking me why I became a surrogate, well that’s a longer story.”

“It’s why I came here,” Hamish said patiently, leaning back, and Annemarie smiled warmly at him.

“Alright then,” she settled in. “I was twenty-two. I was young and studying for my doctorate and very, very poor. I was looking into more loans and better jobs and it was difficult. A friend of mine suggested surrogacy; I waved her off. That was never really something I’d considered- carrying a baby for other people. I wasn’t even in a relationship myself; I couldn’t imagine pregnancy. But the idea was in my mind, you understand.

“And then I was mugged,” she said and Hamish suddenly understood where this was going. “I was mugged by a serial killer, only of course I didn’t know that. And so I’m standing on the street talking to a policeman when this beanpole in a trenchcoat whips past me and starts interrogating me about the mugger. I can remember this clear as day, all these years later, the way the policeman started fighting with him and all the questions he asked me.

“The mugger had taken my coat too so I was shivering and this shorter, blond man comes up behind the beanpole and shrugs off his coat before draping it around me and introducing himself as Doctor Watson. That was when they told me my mugger was actually a serial killer they’d been chasing for weeks and suddenly I wasn’t so upset about my wallet being taken. I filled out a report, was escorted home, and felt personally responsible when they caught the mugger two days kater based of my description. That should have been the end of it.”

Annemarie met Hamish’s eye and hers were twinkling, shining with the glamour of a really good memory. “But then a week later I get a knock on my door and your parents are standing there, trying to smile. Your Papa is blushing fiercely and your Dad says, calm as anything, ‘I realized you were considering surrogacy. We’re interested. May we come in?’  So I did what any sane woman would do.”

She giggled. “I set them on my sofa and made them tea. I was curious how your Dad knew that about me and he explained, based on the contents of my recovered wallet. We talked about it, they explained why they wanted children so badly. They were so desperate for you Hamish, you should understand,” Annemarie explained and Hamish felt his eyes begin to water.

“They explained their lifestyle and they knew no adoption agency on this Earth would give them a child. But they also knew their own circumstances and that their baby would be loved and coddled and adored-“ she broke off and Hamish was surprised to realize they were both close to tears. “We ended up having six meetings before I agreed. I came to your flat a few times and I visited their work- I stayed behind the yellow tape,” she tried a laugh and Hamish laughed too, relieving the tension.

“But in the end, it wasn’t even that need that won me over,” she said honestly, baring herself. “It was watching them together- how much they loved each other. How carefully your Papa took care of your Dad and visa versa. And watching that I realized, if I could do something good for these two people, I had to.”

Hamish sniffled and rubbed his eyes on his jumper sleeve before Annemarie noticed and handed him a tissue, both of them giggling slightly through tight throats.

“And you were such an impatient baby,” she laughed and Hamish caved. “You kicked me black and blue from the inside, desperate to get out. I had the strangest cravings. And your Dad was a menace. He regulated everything I ate, designed vitamins for me, picked out all of my doctors. Both your parents loved you from the moment you were artificially conceived.

“It was so hard, giving you to them,” she nodded. “The only way I was even able to do it was because I knew how loved you would be. How perfectly cared for and adored you would be. You belonged with them.”

Hamish couldn’t speak. He’d come here with millions of questions but now he couldn’t find a single one in the mangled mess of his heart. Annemarie seemed to understand his silence perfectly though, like a true mother.

“I always say it was my karma,” she told him. “Not even a year after you were born, I met Daniel and now I have my own children. I used to visit sporatically when you were very little and wouldn’t remember me but both your parents and I agreed there was no sense in confusing you. But here you are-“

“Here I am,” Hamish echoed and it was an unexpectedly blissful moment. Annemarie stood and reached out to him and Hamish did not even hesitate before hugging her. It was a brief hug, mother though she was they were still relatively strangers, but a warm hug nevertheless.

“Have you eaten dinner?” she asked after pulling back and Hamish hesitated before shaking his head. This was about to go two ways and he knew exactly which way he wanted it to go.

“Would you like to join us for the rest of ours?” she asked and Hamish was already nodding.

He’d had a small family all his life; it’d be interesting to see what it felt like to expand. “I’d love that,” he agreed and he did not falter as he followed Annemarie into the dining room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm doing this. *deep breath* Hi guys, I have some news.
> 
> Some of you may have noticed this is no longer marked as a work-in-progress and there's a reason for that. The reason is that in a few days (six!) I am moving to an entirely different country which is amazing and exciting and something I have been looking forward to for a long time now.
> 
> But it's also incredibly time consuming. Anyone who has moved can tell you how much energy and time it takes, especially when you're moving internationally. It might take weeks till I'm settled, it might take months. And in that space, I don't want to leave anyone hanging. The truth is, I could keep writing this forever. I have enough ideas (war stories) to do this till I'm 90. But time is a trickier thing and I don't like the word hiatus. So this seemed like an okay place to end.
> 
> I have loved writing this beast so much- entirely because of you guys. It baffles my mind just how many people have read this and loved this and enjoyed. You are all my favourite people, my babies, the cutest things on the internet. There are no words to explain how much I love you all- trust me, I'm a writer. All I can say is thank you. To those of you who have been with this story since it started almost a year ago- sorry about how long it got. To those of you who only just found me- sorry it was such a short run. And to all of you who read this- thank you.
> 
> All of you who ever had an idea for a chapter, or will have an idea for a chapter- WRITE IT. WRITE THAT FANFICTION and then tell me so I can read it. Promise.  
> And stay tuned because I'm just moving, not dying. There is still so much more to come.  
> As always, all my love xoxoxoxoxo- Shay


	35. An Epilogue of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song suggestion: Chicago by Sufjan Stevens

Hamish ran into the waiting room, eyes already searching for a familiar figure in a long, black coat. He waved to his favorite nurse, Maria, his father's favorite nurse Patrick, and skidded to a halt next to the filled chair further down the hall.

"I came as soon as I heard," he gasped out but Sherlock only smiled gently up at him, one of the rare, real smiles that reached his eyes that he always seemed to save for his family.

"You shouldn't have rushed," he eased, taking in his son's flushed appearance with a calculating gaze that was as affectionate as a reassuring hug. "Your father was swearing up and down in the ambulance that it was just a bad fracture and I'm inclined to agree. He's just being x-rayed now. And how are you?"

Hamish opened his mouth to answer before realizing his father's question was not addressed to him but to the bouncing, chubby ball in the carrier on his chest.

"We're good," Hamish answered for them as Annie giggled at her grandfather.

"Mommy and Me class went well?" his father teased, just a hint of a smirk in his eyes and Hamish glared at him with a look that had not tamed in the years since his teens.

"It's Parent and Me class, as you know very well," his son corrected haughtily, even as he unstrapped his daughter and gave her a good cuddle before handing her into Sherlock's waiting arms. "And we left in the middle as soon as Hopkins called to tell me my parents were en route to hospital _again_ -"

"We're fine," Sherlock promised, Annie fitting neatly into his arms like she belonged there. Hamish was reminded vividly of the moment, not long after her birth, when Sherlock had put out his arms for a turn at holding her and all in the room- uncles Greg and Mycroft along with what had felt like half the police force- had given him a long, measured look. "Has everyone forgotten I've had a child?" he'd raged and then had proceeded to hold the tiny, infant Annie like a professional. He was still the only one who could get her down from a proper wobbly, a skill he refused to teach to her parents.

"Yeah well, I worry," Hamish admitted in the gruff, uncomfortable way he often did when forced to admit human emotion.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, forever six. "Hamish, your father and I are grown adults-"

"And still not bulletproof!" his son argued. "And Pa, with his hip now, it's a wonder he didn't break anything from that fall-"

"Are you accusing your father and me of being old men?" Sherlock asked dangerously and Hamish just smiled tiredly at him.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he promised and Annie gurgled her agreement. Hamish sighed. "Look, you're my parents. You can do, and will do, whatever you please and it's your life and all that. But you can't get mad at me when I worry. And now with Annie-" Sherlock slid her into her father's arms before Hamish even realized he had them open for her, "I just-" Hamish wasn't sure how to phrase it.

"Want her to have grandparents?" Sherlock filled in, never one to shy away from unpleasant thoughts.

"Basically," Hamish agreed. He propped his daughter up on his lap, carefully supporting her head with his spread hands, and leaned into her smiling face to brush noses, prompting a fresh bout of giggling. It made this conversation easier, not making eye contact. "I'm not telling you to move into a home and take up knitting but maybe leave the serial killers to someone without the beginnings of arthritis-"

"We're talking about retiring," Sherlock said, utterly blasé, and Hamish nearly dropped his child.

"What?"

"We've been talking about it for a while," Sherlock continued, unconcerned he was shattering his son's world. "The original plan was to both die in a blaze of glory sometime around fifty, but then you were born. So we switched it to retiring to the country to raise bees once we couldn’t keep up anymore."

He looked down the hall to where his husband was lying beneath an x-ray machine. "I'm thinking we're there," he confessed. "Lestrade's retired, Donovan's retired, hell even Hopkins is getting on in age. It's a different game now."

Hamish watched his father sadly. "It was a good game," he said, just as soft, and he saw his father smile, still looking down the hallway.

"The best," he nodded and then, with a clap of his hands, he was turning around to grin manically at his family, eyes alight with brand new plans.

"The cottage might have to wait, seeing as we'd like to stay in London for a little bit longer," he filled in, winking at his granddaughter who watched him with rapt, large eyes. "But maybe we'll buy it anyway and go up during the summers. Although if we do invest in the bees, I'll want to be with them year-round to monitor hive development. Maybe weekends? I'll have to talk it over with your father- you'll act surprised when we finally tell you, yes?"

"Um-" Hamish tried and was spared by a call of "Mr. Holmes?"

"Patrick," Sherlock greeted, standing up and striding over to shake the nurse's hand. "How is he?"

"Perfectly fine, minus the fractured wrist," Patrick said. "He still calls his injuries perfectly, your husband. And is this Annie?" he beamed, peering behind Sherlock to where Hamish still sat, a bit shell-shocked, bouncing his daughter.

"Of course it's Annie, do you think I've suddenly sprouted another grandchild?" Sherlock berated but Hamish stood up to make the re-introductions.

"Bit bigger than the last time you saw her, isn’t she?" Hamish chatted, adjusting Annie in his arms so she could gurgle excitedly at the smiling nurse.

"Quite a bit," Patrick laughed. "How's her mum?"

"Back at work and happy to escape," Hamish joked. "This one's _just_ starting to sleep through the night."

"While this chatter is nothing short of stimulating, may I see my husband now?" Sherlock cut through and Patrick snapped back into professional, nodding.

"He's in the third examination room, just getting his cast done. You can go in."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded and swept off down the hall with a dramatic swirl of his coat. Hamish gave a small shrug, waved at Patrick, and followed his father.

The doctor was just leaving the examination room as Hamish came in, probably forewarned that the notorious Holmes was on the way. John sat on the examination table, rubbing the neon green cast on his wrist.

"Oh god, have you gone blind?" Sherlock cried helplessly and his husband smirked at him.

"He offered me a choice of colors," John said simply, shrugging. "Do you not like it?"

"You are a menace, John Watson," Sherlock groaned but he reached out to touch the offending wrist gently, as if assuring himself all was really well.

John looked up, meeting his husband's eyes, and Hamish watched them have one of their infamous silent conversations- the bane of the Yard. Hamish would never be fluent, but he could, after decades in the Holmes-Watson household, do a rudimentary translation.

_I was worried about you_

_I'm fine. You'd know if I wasn't_

_Promise me you won't do something that stupid again_

_I will if you will_

_Well played_

With a fond grin, John looked away from his husband to see Hamish hovering in the doorway. "Oh, love," he lit up, before turning to glare at his husband. "You worried Hamish over this nonsense?"

"It was Hopkins," Sherlock spat out. "That little boy thinks just cause we're older than him we snap like twigs if we so much as trip-"

"Why don't you go handle my paperwork and get me out of here?" John delegated and Sherlock, aware he'd been cut off mid-rant, nodded and move to sweep out. He stopped, meeting his husband's eyes one more time.

This time it wasn't much of a silent conversation. "I love you too, you tosser," John grinned and Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him before stalking off.

John let out an almighty sigh and then turned to beam at his son. "Come here love, let me hug my baby," he ordered and Hamish came to sit next to him, handing off his daughter. She seemed to enjoy the toy treatment and crinkled her eyes endearingly at her grandfather.

"It's Grandpapi baby, can you say hi?" John prompted, a smitten grin on his face and Annie just beamed right back at him. Hamish interrupted the love-fest with a little cough.

"We started crawling today," he informed his father.

"Really?" John asked excitedly.

"Well, we lay on the floor and watched a video about inchworms," Hamish confessed and John laughed out loud. "But all great acts start somewhere."

John appraised his son, not the same calculating gaze as his husband but something softer and occasionally more perceptive. "Paternity leave treating you well?" he asked, hitting the very heart of the elephant in the room.

Hamish took a deep breath. "I'm extending," he said. "Taking off some more time."

John's face was completely neutral. "What'd Scotty say to that?"

Hamish grimaced as he remembered the conversation he'd had with his agent that morning. "He's not pleased," he summarized nicely. "I'm trying to spin it to him that I'll get great father parts once I come back but he's worried if I stay away too long, West End will forget me."

"Unlikely," John interjected. "If you're good enough, people wait."

"And her mum's working and happy to be doing it!" Hamish justified. "We're not in any trouble financially. In a few months yeah, I'll have to start looking at scripts again but right now-"

He smiled at the emerging memory. "Yesterday, as we were getting dressed to go out, she smiled at me. Not a gassy smile or a just burped smile- a real smile! How can I miss that, Pa? How can I give that to a babysitter?"

His father looked at him appraisingly before apparently finding him worthy. "After you were born, your father barely took cases for two years," he informed Hamish.

Two groundbreaking revelations was more than anyone should have to handle in one day. "Two years?" Hamish repeated uselessly, glad his Dad wasn't there to call him on it.

"The Yard called them the dark ages," John teased. "I took on some locum work; to be honest I was glad for the break most days. You were a bit of a fussy baby at the beginning. But your Dad- have you ever seen your baby book?"

Hamish shook his head and John smiled to himself. "I'll have to find it and show it to you," he noted. "Meticulous notes, that man took. On what you ate, drank, how much you pooped, consistency-"

"Okay, okay," Hamish begged off and John smirked at him. A menace indeed.

"He was infatuated with you. When you started learning to crawl, he didn't leave the house for nearly a month. You were his life," John reminisced. "You still are his life, both our lives really, but he would not part from you those two years."

"What happened?"

"You went to playgroup," John summed up. "Broke his heart. Your first day, I think he was more distressed than you were. Nearly paced a hole in our floor."

Annie made a distinct wail and Hamish reached into the sling pocket to fetch out a bottle. He took his daughter one-handed from his father with a practiced ease and gave her the bottle that she latched onto happily.

"Short wail means she's hungry," Hamish decoded and his father gave him a long look.

"Your father and I solved cases across the world," his Pa spoke up softly. "We've received awards, prizes; your Dad's refused knighthood four times. We've had princes, kings, statesmen and even your Uncle Mycroft credit us with saving their lives. 

"And still, the greatest thing we ever did was raise you."

Hamish opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and then just gave up and hugged his Pa. Annie let out an indignant squawk at the squishing and at the neglected feeding and Hamish drew back quickly, setting bottle back into her waiting lips- same cupid's bow as her grandfather.

"Pa-" Hamish tried again but his father took mercy on him.

"Parenting doesn't get a lot of acclaim," he told his son. "You don’t get awards, nobody gives you the keys to any cities. Mostly you make a lot of mistakes and think you're doing everything wrong. But it's the best thing you will ever do."

"Your father has moments of real intelligence on occasion," Sherlock spoke up from the doorway and for a minute Hamish felt completely surrounded by pure, unfiltered love in a way he hadn't since he was young enough to crawl into a thunder-prompted cuddle pile.

"I love you both, so much," he choked out and John had a brief second to whisper, "Oh love-" before Sherlock coughed.

"Alright, that is enough," he decided and the two Watsons let out identical giggles a bit too high-pitched to ever be called masculine. "You papers have been signed, let's leave. Please."

"Are you free for lunch?" his Pa asked and Hamish didn't even bother checking his watch. There were things you always made time for.

"I have nothing on," he replied casually and his father smiled at him in a way that made it clear he wasn't fooled.

"How bout you Annie; you ready for second lunch?" he checked with his granddaughter and she burped at him.

"Angelo's should be open," Sherlock offered.

"Okay but no candles," Hamish cautioned. "Annie's going through a bit of a fire phase."

"Well done you," Sherlock grinned at her and his husband snickered at him.

"Sherlock-" John tried, his heart not even close to in it, and Hamish felt like his was floating, like there was a balloon beneath his ribcage keeping his feet from touching the ground, like he was the boy who'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted. And in the end, that was all it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, hi.  
> I meant to write this in like November but then I got a real job in a foster home so whoo. And then it was gonna get written in December but it was Visa season and they really don't appreciate when you write fanfiction in the embassy waiting room. And then it was January but I had my research (the actual reason I moved). So really, it's a miracle this got written at all is what I'm saying.  
> But it did! I'm actually okay ending this here. I have this whole headcannon about the bright life of Hamish Watson and how he became an actor, had a baby and all that fun stuff that I'd love to write. But at that point I'm writing the life story of an original character and that's not really fanfiction. Also not something you'd guys wanna read. So in my heart it stays.  
> Um so, this is my life now. I'm researching the stuff I love, working a demanding job that makes me so happy and fighting bureaucracy every step of the way. It's a good life.  
> I have a little free time coming up (jokes. I've just given up sleep) so y'all can expect a yummy short story coming your way. And there is this massive beast of a story stuck in my head that is coming out eventually! You guys are gonna love it. It's got everything; kidlock, teen love, angst, feels, awkward sexytimes, fluff, PUPPIES, and maybe even a Blingo or two.  
> This is not the last you'll see of me.  
> All my love, always.  
> xoxo- Shay


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